


Code Adam

by JenniferNapier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and fighting, Aziraphale can kick ass, Badass Aziraphale, Crowley and fighting, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Female Beelzebub (Good Omens), Gen, Godparents Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), Hellfire, Holy Water, Kidnapping, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Trial by Combat, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), aziraphale is good with kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-08-20 07:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: The Antichrist has gone missing, yet again, so Aziraphale and Crowley must do everything in their power to find him. Even if it means returning to Heaven and Hell, where they are no longer welcome.





	1. In Which Adam Goes Missing

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes another Good Omens Fanfic! I am particularly fond of this one, and I hope you enjoy it as well.

Aziraphale always reacted to the ring of his bookshop’s telephone with excitement. Excitement, or anxiety-- one of the two. Ironically, his excitement came with the possibility that the caller was a certain demon, while his anxiety came with the possibility that the caller was simply another potential customer that he would have to politely turn away.

It was a bit exhilarating, not knowing which result to expect every time he picked up his phone. Crowley had been encouraging him to upgrade to a more modern device with something called ‘Caller I.D.’ but Aziraphale loved his old phone. It had practically been an original artifact to the bookshop when he’d first purchased it, and Aziraphale so loved to preserve Earthly objects. There was simply never enough time to cherish humanity's spectacular inventions and crafty creations before they became old hat and forgotten by their creators, or before they became upgraded to something newer, better, sleeker, and faster.

Like many things, humanity itself seemed to evolve much too fast for Aziraphale. Sometimes it pained him, in a small, bittersweet way, like how a parent was pained while watching their precious child age too quickly. The angel did his best to try and keep up with the whirling innovation of the humans, but he was nowhere near as capable at adapting to their growth as his demonic friend.

He suspended a grin behind his lips as he picked up the phone, waiting for said demonic friend’s voice to reach his ear with warm anticipation. But it was not Crowley who called him this time. It neither was a potential customer, thank the Heavens. “Aziraphale?” It was Anathema, whom he’d met not too long ago when the world had nearly gone kaput.

“Why, hello Anna. How are you?” His grin, which had been reserved for Crowley’s voice, was released for the girl’s instead. It was a pleasure to hear from her, and Aziraphale had been meaning to talk with her about her studious life’s work when things had settled down.

She ignored his friendly formalities of greeting and dove straight to the point. “Have you seen Adam?"

Aziraphale was a little slow to keep up, and the urgency in her calm voice puzzled him. “Has the boy changed since the last time I did?”

“I mean have you seen him _ recently? _ We can’t find him, he’s gone missing.”

“Missing?” The angel yielded a faint wail of curiosity before studying the far walls of his cozy bookshop. “I haven’t seen him in a few days, no. I recall the last time was when--”

“I think something’s happened to him.”

A chill ran down the blonde bookkeeper's intangible wings. “Happened? I thought you had no more prophecies.”

Aziraphale could just picture her in her homely cottage in Tadfield with her fingers to her forehead, gesturing briefly with worry as she explained, “No, no… I just… I have a bad _ feeling _, instead.”

A bad feeling. He knew how important it was to trust those. They were quite comparable to prophecies, on a much smaller and individual scale. God had given _ feelings _, both good and bad, to souls for a reason. “I’ll be right over,” the angel answered with great care and shared urgency in his tone before hanging up. But he did not leave the bookshop yet. He had to make one more quick phone call.

“Crowley, something’s happened to Adam. Meet me in Tadfield as soon as possible.”

* * *

It did not take long for the Bentley to come squealing around the cobblestone corner, alarming every citizen who was already fretting with concern in the village. Aziraphale turned calmly to watch it lurch to a halt as Anathema blinked in surprise, having only just started their discussion with each other.

Crowley all but flopped out of the diver’s side with graceful clumsiness. “Well what is it? Has he got his powers back?” he called, appearing emotionally prepared for the worst as he awkwardly trotted over as if a rock was uncomfortably stuck in his shoe.

The demon tended to move himself like a newborn giraffe when he was nervous, but Aziraphale didn’t fawn over it this time around. Instead, he answered honestly and gently, “We won’t know until we get _ him _ back.”

“_Him _ back? Back from where?” Crowley glanced between the two of them from behind his shades.

Anathema kept her arms folded across her dress. “We don't know. He’s gone missing.”

“_Missing? _” the demon wailed, more forcefully than Aziraphale had earlier. Anathema continued, “We fear he’s been kidnapped.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and took a breath, glancing to the ground with worry. Crowley simply gawked at them both with a curl of his lip. “_Kidnapped? _ The _Antichrist_, _kidnapped? _”

Aziraphale shushed him, detecting the attitude bubbling up in his tone, and also corrected him, “He’s not the Antichrist anymore, Crowley. He’s just a boy. And boys are, in fact, at risk of a napping.”

Anathema ignored the redhead’s skepticism, and continued speaking to Aziraphale, who seemed to be taking this matter appropriately seriously, unlike his friend. “His mother says he last went chasing after his dog again.”

Crowley cut in with more of his incredulous tone, believing this was all some sort of joke that they were playing on him ‘for shits and giggles,’ as they called it. “The _hell _hound?”

The angel nodded a quiet aside to the demon, “I’m not sure it’s quite so hellhound-ish anymore.”

Crowley scoffed, rolling his head, “Obviously not. Any proper hellhound would have torn a potential abductor to shreds. This one’s gone soft.” Adam had certainly wished for him to be a soft, small, sweet dog. Aziraphale was once relieved of this, but he wasn't quite so relieved now.

The angel continued his discussion with Anathema. “How long ago was this?”

“It’ll be two days come this afternoon.”

Aziraphale took a breath that was more shaky than he would have liked. With a bit of a whine, he prayed he’d misheard her. “Two days?”

Crowley gave him a grim look of stone, and the angel glanced at him with a small grimace. They both knew that boded ill. Aziraphale was desperate to maintain his optimism. “He couldn’t have gone far,” he attempted with an uneasy huff, as if the distance was the boy’s decision, which it certainly wasn’t. “Has there been no sign of him at all?”

Anathema shook her head and dropped her arms after a gesture to the woods. “We’ve only found his bike.”

“Where was his bike?” the angel asked, eager to visit the site. There had to be some clue there that could help them find the child.

Anathema agreed to show them, granted that Crowley didn’t break the sound barrier, and Aziraphale practically pushed the demon all the way to the driver’s door, assuring the witch that he wouldn’t. The angel wrung his hands in the passenger seat as the woman reached forward from the backseat to point out the way. Crowley came nowhere close to breaking the sound barrier with his car, and for once, Aziraphale preferred that he drive a bit faster. Now was not the time to obey the speed limit.

* * *

Once they reached the spot to pull over, Anathema led the way through the brush and onto an animal trail. Stepping through the twigs and dirt, Aziraphale kept his hands tightly together when he was not opening them for balance or to hold a branch out of their way.

“I’m terribly worried,” he murmured as they trekked at a human pace, again much too slow for his liking in this situation.

Crowley took his turn to hold a branch out of their way, muttering, “Don’t be. He’s fine,” as if he were being forced to come along on a ridiculous and pointless endeavor. Then, less harshly, he genuinely made an effort to comfort the angel. “Probably just lost his way in the woods. Humans don't have the best sense of direction when there isn’t a little device in their hands, telling them exactly where to go.”

Anathema spoke up from ahead of them, having overheard their fussing and unable to keep her convictions to herself. “Adam knows this forest like the back of his hand. He’s not lost.”

Unfortunately, Crowley was in the prime mood to argue. “Alright, wise one, so what happened then?”

Anathema was not in the mood to argue, and though her voice was defensive it was not quite as strong as usual. “I don't know.”

“Oh, you don't know.” Crowley repeated mockingly. He glanced to Aziraphale with an exaggerated shrug before calling back to the woman. “She doesn’t know. What’s the matter, book girl? No more precious _ prophecies _to guide your way?” he barked, enunciating his plosives.

“Crowley, you are being unnecessarily _ rude _.” Aziraphale touched the back of his hand to the demon’s chest, gently ushering him behind and placing himself between them. “Ignore him, my dear, he’s just frightened for the boy,” he apologized for his friend, sticking close to Anathema as Crowley was forced to take up the rear.

Crowley sneered in offense, “Am not!” He nearly tripped over a root. “Why should I care what’s happened to the little brat? He’s not _ my _ son,” he snarled mildly, revealing some disapproving judgement on the boy’s _ stupid _ parents. What did they expect, letting him wander off on his own all the damned time?

Warlock had always been kept within strict boundaries, with plenty of watchful eyes over him. That had been the whole _ point. _ Those parents were _ meant _to have the Antichrist, so he’d always be accounted for and kept tabs on, but some dimwitted nun had to screw everything up, and now here the Destroyer of Worlds was-- lost again!

Aziraphale threw a stern look back at the bumbling madman. “And he’s not the _ devil’s _ son either, so you can take your bitterness and _ leave it somewhere else_.” That was quite possibly the closest his tone would ever get to a scolding, and it shut Crowley up nicely.

Anathema seemed to sigh as she came to a stop, brushing her dark hair from her face. “There. Against that tree is where we found his bike.” She pointed for the angel. The three of them stood to scan the opening in the forest. After a moment, she turned to place a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, smiling sadly. “I hope you find a way to help him. I’m going to go... deliver some flyers.” The angel could tell she was masking her emotions, and quite admirably well. He gave her a kind smile as she left.

As she passed between them, she bumped against Crowley’s shoulder, and made no sign to apologize for or acknowledge it, so the demon watched her go off with a growl on the edge of his lips. “Don’t scratch my _ car _ removing your _ bike_, book girl!” he warned with a wave of heat radiating from his skin.

She didn't make any promises, only throwing up a careless wave as she stepped through the woods. Aziraphale extended one of his invisible wings to place it in the way of the demon’s greater line of sight, guiding him to avert his angry attention.

Crowley reluctantly pulled his glare forward, mumbling, “I’ll kill ‘er if she does it on purpose.”

“No, you won’t.” Aziraphale hummed distractedly, scanning the little clearing before them as if he could see details that a human could not, which was entirely true. He wasn’t going to be bothered by Crowley’s empty, impulsive, short-lived threats. He was more concerned with studying the place where Adam’s bike was abandoned. 

Stepping forward, he left the demon’s side to survey the scene closer. By process of elimination, he found the ‘scent’ trail that was not made by any investigators, parents, or friends of the family, but that must have been made by the boy-- though his essence was still impossibly difficult to detect compared to other humans.

“I think he went this way.”

Crowley lifted one arm to gesture in a different direction. “But the hellhound went that way.”

“Adam didn’t know that, at the time. He went a different way, I can feel it.” Aziraphale verbalized, already moving onward. The angel followed his intuition like it was a metal detector while Crowley, looking more tired than before, followed the angel. “Wull, alright.” 

* * *

The trail paved by the angel’s intuition led to a small freeway, composed of only two lanes and a single faded line of paint. Compressed tar, sun bleached and endless, reached into the distance where it vanished into the beyond.

A stiffened doe lied a little ways off, legs erect in rigor mortis. The sight of the roadkill did not help the hopeless mood in the least bit. With a sorrowful glance, Aziraphale lifted his fingers, and the deer’s corpse dissolved into golden dust that the wind carried into the afterlife.

“Where do your _feelings _lead you now, angel?” Crowley crooned, only slightly mockingly, and not in a particularly malicious way. He stuck his hands in his pockets and bounced on his heels in dulled anticipation.

Aziraphale stared at the road with furrowed brow. The ‘scent’ trail, already fleeting and faint, had halted. “This feels wrong. Something _ wrong _has happened. Don’t you feel it?” This was the place. This was where the boy was taken.

Crowley watched the angel, not the road. Stepping closer, he answered gently, “There's a certain level of desensitization that demons come to possess when things are _ wrong _ so often, Aziraphale.” He remained behind his friend’s shoulder, as if his proximity could be comforting to him, but he knew better than that. “But no, I do not detect anything extraordinarily _ evil _here.” He finally looked upon the road. Just a plain old road, where small tragedies occurred every so often, like that unfortunate deer’s demise.

“Neither do I. But something was _ definitely _ wrong.” Aziraphale watched what little he could see of the remnants of the past, narrating as he pieced them together, “He was nervous. He was tempted by something that he knew wasn’t quite right. But there wasn't anything… violent. There _ was _a car. It had to have driven away with him, but after that… I don’t…” He finally threw up his hands in exasperation, troubled that he could see so little of the boy.

If he were truly human now, then shouldn’t he be more detectable?

That was another concern for another time.

“Well, it wasn’t the work of an angel, and it wasn't the work of a demon, we know that much.” Crowley pointed out one thing they could be somewhat relieved about.

The angel nodded distractedly, until it transformed into a shake of his head. “I don't understand how this could have happened.”

Crowley explained as if he’d seen it a hundred times over. “Someone probably offered to help him find his dog, and it obviously was a lie to get the boy to go along. That’s all.”

Aziraphale, who had not witnessed such crimes nearly as often (and no amount of repetition would deem it trite to him) stomped the ground and turned around to wail again. “This is _ terrible _.”

“What’s the statistic say? Forty eight hours, is it? Or seventy two?” the demon muttered to himself. Regardless, the point was, “Odds are, he’s probably already dead.” It was supposed to be something reminiscent of a comforting idea, but he failed miserably at accomplishing that.

Aziraphale whirled on him with angelic anger. “How can you ** _say _ **such a thing, Crowley!?”

The demon shrugged rigidly, disguising his guilt with innocence. “I’m just being a realist.”

“Well, stop it!” Aziraphale threw a point, demanding it this instant. “What have I told you about hope?”

“I…” Crowley did try to make an effort, but failed again. “...I hope that it was _ painless _, how’s that?”

“That’s it!” Aziraphale frowned deeply, which was his version of seething. With a horizontal gesture, he zipped the conversation closed. “I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day!” he sentenced with a ‘sorry, but you’ve earned this punishment’ expression.

Crowley was crestfallen, and his knees bent in a pleading stoop. “Oh come on now, angel.”

“I’m serious, Crowley.” Aziraphale gave him another warning point of his finger, so Crowley remained still, and silent, and pouted miserably with as much obedience and patience as he could muster.

With a huff, Aziraphale left him alone in his time-out and turned to scan the road again. Concern and fear brewed in his chest. He hated it. He could feel it eating at his soul. It was making him emotional, and not the good kind of emotional. It was making him upset. Not only that, but _ angry_, and he did not like being angry, especially toward his friend.

After a long moment, he slowly glanced back to the demon. “Do you really think...?”

Crowley didn't want to break his friend’s heart. So he did his best to answer kindly. “I don't know, Aziraphale.”

After another round of thought fraught with trepidation, and a suppressed swallow, Aziraphale suggested quietly, “...We should check. “

“Check?”

“Yes. Start our search there.”

“Where?”

“Heaven. And… Hell. Just in case.” He hesitated to meet Crowley’s eyes.

“_Hell? _ You think if that boy’s dead, he’d be in _ Hell? _” Crowley squinted. “He’s not the Antichrist anymore, you said so yourself.”

The angel patted the air. “Just in case. I want no stone left unturned. We _ have _to find that boy, Crowley.”

Crowley extended his bottom lip and shook his head in refusal. “I’m not going back down there.”

Aziraphale did not want to ask him to. He completely understood the aversion, and he nodded, thinking. “...What if we switched bodies again? You could… check _ Heaven_, if you’d rather.” He offered selflessly. Aziraphale really didn’t want to go back down to Hell either, but he was willing to compromise for Crowley.

“I don’t think it’d be wise to perform the same magic trick twice for _ that _crowd.” The demon grimaced.

“Why not?” The angel grew worried as Crowley stepped closer to explain.

“Because if you waltz down there, after the whole _ bath _ incident, with _ my _ body, every demon and his pustules are gonna have their eyes on you-- filled with hatred, and fear. The thing about hatred and fear is that they build on each other, angel, until eventually, the hatred always wins. So before long, somebody-- or a whole _ lot _of somebodies-- are gonna pick a fight with you.” He rested a pointed finger on the angel’s chest. “And demons fight with fire.”

Aziraphale understood, and he certainly did not want to be caught in a situation like that. His feathers bristled just imagining it. “...Well, then, with that same logic, _ you _can’t go down there either.” He murmured, forcing his feathers to settle.

Crowley’s eyes twinkled mischievously under his sunglasses. “Hellfire won’t do nearly as much damage to me as it would to you. I breathe that stuff, remember?”

The angel did remember.

“No matter who goes, Aziraphale, it’s too risky. It would be best for us both to stay away from the Pit.”

Aziraphale agreed and sighed with a faltering optimism that he struggled to renew. “Well, let’s just hope... that if he _ is… gone_, that he’s in Heaven.” He would hold fast to his hopes, however feeble they were. “But I’m betting that he’s alive. So while I go up there, you search down here, sound good?” He planned, marching away with determination.

Crowley turned to watch him, calling him back with a tilt of his head. “Are _ you _ going to be alright, going back up _ there? _”

A hesitant smile could be glimpsed on the angel’s face as he tried to joke, “I seriously doubt that they’ve installed flaming booby traps in my absence.” His smile wavered. “But there is always a chance, I suppose.” Crowley was not laughing at that joke. The lift of one eyebrow above his sunglasses demanded a legitimate answer.

“I’ll be fine.” Aziraphale soothed earnestly. The inconvenience of visiting Heaven was rather petty, in comparison to the physical danger that Hell hosted. “I just have to _ see _ and _ hear _people, which I do not want to do.” He felt nauseous at the mere thought of Gabriel’s voice. “But I’ll live.”

The demon could see the dread painted on his friend’s usually bright and beaming face. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Of course I do!” the angel winced, hurt by the implication that there was an alternative option-- an option to _ not _ do everything in their power. “We _ have _to find that boy, Crowley.”

Crowley knew that asking the forthcoming word would only be asking for his friend to become upset again, but the demon truly did not understand, “_Why? _”

“Why? _ Why? _ Because he’s _ Adam! _” Aziraphale attested, indeed growing upset again. He did not understand how Crowley did not understand.

Crowley argued gently, opening his arms, “We don’t need to keep tabs on him anymore, his powers are gone.”

“I know that. I don’t care about that. I care about _him._” the blonde professed. He was countered with a careless, “You care about everyone.” from the demon.

Aziraphale’s voice raised in both pitch and volume. “It’s in my nature!”

“Let it _go,_ or you’re going to worry yourself to _ death_.” Crowley begged, grimacing and bending at the knees again. He knew how the angel could become consumed by sorrow and guilt. The demon did not want to spend the next few months trying to cheer him up from this loss, and undoubtedly failing at it miserably.

The argument was growing increasingly unpleasant for the angel, and so Aziraphale finally leapt to gain higher ground in it, accusing, “Is he _ disposable _ to you?” Crowley curled his lip, caught without an easy comeback. “Just someone to care about when it suits you? When it benefits you?” Aziraphale continued calmly, genuinely curious.

The demon sneered, “Aziraphale, don’t be cruel."

“I’m asking legitimate questions!” the angel protested with strained patience in his voice. “Are you not going to answer them?”

Crowley didn’t answer them. Instead, he repeated quietly with a brewing defensive anger smothered deep inside him that he dare not unleash upon the angel. “....He’s _ just _ a _ boy_.” He was quoting the angel’s earlier words, and twisting them.

Aziraphale did not want to push Crowley’s buttons or force out a burst of anger, but he had to drive his point home, and he did so with the tenderness of a friend. “And _ you’re _ just a demon. And _ I’m _just an angel.” His point was this. “A soul is a soul, Crowley. No matter what creature it inhabits, or what scope of influence that creature is meant to have.”

With a lingering pained gaze, he ensured that Crowley was not hurt too deeply by his words, and then Aziraphale turned to leave, heading straight to the nearest portal to Heaven. The angel was stopped by the demon’s voice.

“I’ll go to Hell.”

The blonde slowly turned to face his friend again.

“If it’s what you want. I’ll go.”

Aziraphale winced at that, even though Crowley had not meant to make him feel guilty. “Now, don’t put it that way. I don’t _want _you to go to Hell.” The angel gave him a soft, desperate look. “I just want to find Adam.”

“Then we’ll find Adam.” Crowley assured with a nod of acceptance. After a moment, the demon turned and subtly strut down the paved road.

Once he had sorted through a few twinges of his own heart, Aziraphale called after him. “...Crowley.”

The demon twisted to strut backwards, his hands still in his pockets. “What?”

“More than that… I want _you_ to come _back, _afterwards.” Aziraphale called nervously, having difficulty putting his great concern into words. It had cropped up so suddenly, quickly replacing his relief and gratitude. “Can you do that for me?” He swallowed, hope lighting up his face for a moment before dimming.

A smile snaked across Crowley’s face as he interpreted the angel’s request accurately, announcing confidently, “I can, and I will.”

Aziraphale’s smile returned, slowly gaining strength as he watched the demon saunter away. “Good. Good, yes.” He breathed to himself, repeatedly struggling to tear his gaze away as he made his way back into the woods, toward a nearby pond where algae floated and frogs croaked. A touch of his hand turned the water as clear as glass and as frozen solid as ice. He stepped to the center of the transformed surface, which radiated with Holy light until it formed a brief beacon upwards, concealing the angel and his lifted wings. It then abruptly returned to its original swampy state, sans light, sans purity, sans solidity, and sans angel.

Simultaneously, solid became liquid as Crowley descended into the puddle of a mirage upon the distant black road, which had been turned soft by the fire of the sun as if it were reheated lava.


	2. In Which Crowley Goes to Hell

Anthony J. Crowley blew open the great iron doors of Hell with all the confidence of a runway model making their grand debut. There was a guitar strap slung across his shoulder, suspending what looked like an instrument case that bounced against his hip as he swaggered into the Chamber, causing every demon and their pustules to turn and fester at his unexpected entrance.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he grinned beneath his shades, tipping them down upon his nose to reveal the twinkle in his slit eyes. “Long time, no see.”

The demons parted like the Red Sea as he strode through the hall, all hissing and murmuring and growling and fretting in their various unsettled ways. Crowley had to admit, he _ liked _ the effect he was making. It felt deliciously _ bad _ to be feared-- truly feared-- every few centuries or so. But he’d never been feared like _ this, _and it fed the malnourished side of his demonic nature. The serpent couldn’t wait for the real show to begin.

The wave of demons parted up to a point, and that point was at the other end of the room, where Lord Beelzebub did not hiss, bubble, or back away. She stood like a wretched child amidst the sea of other gang members, inexplicably managing to hold them all together with her mere presence and preventing further tearing of their communal seam like a tiny safety pin stuck firmly in opened flesh.

Crowley gave her a smirk in greeting and came to a stop before taking a grand bow, his instrument case dangling from his torso with a noticeable weight. It clapped back against his hip as he straightened his spine. “Your _ highness _.” Always a humorous title, he’d thought, considering her utter lack of height.

But Lord Beelzebub was nothing to laugh at, and no one ever dared. Not even Crowley.

“You think you can simply waltz back in ‘ere after wot you’ve done, traitor?” she challenged with a deadpan tone and expression. The others’ hissing and murmuring stopped as her voice easily dominated the prison-like hall. Similarly, Crowley’s smile faded.

For such a short demon, Beelzebub never failed to command their sorry excuse of an atmosphere. Whether that was the _ reason _ for her position of power, or a _ result _of it, nobody knew exactly. The Prince of Hell’s strong, silent, fearless, and calm demeanor was as contagious as the disease carried in her fleas, and such a gift was indeed crucial to maintain the illusion of order and civility in Hell.

Crowley clenched his teeth together and bore a grin, ignoring the quickening of his inhuman heart. “I’m here on _ business_, as usual. I don't visit Hell for _ fun_, luv.” 

He thoughtlessly used a blessed word, though he’d only meant it as a common nickname. The demons closest to them flinched and boiled as if it stung their ears. It was a product of having adapted to human life in England-- though he immediately regretted the slip-up, because Beelzebub revealed her rotted teeth in a grimacing response. She was very displeased with the nickname. An apology was not going to repair it, so he didn’t even think about trying something so fruitless. Instead, he took a step back and hovered one hand to the edge of his crocodile-skin instrument case.

“Your _ b'zzziness _ is no longer welcome here.” Lord Beelzebub's voice boomed. “Remove yourself or we shall do it _ for you_.” A rushing of hisses and snarls rose up from the room to echo her, and whatever runway he had paved for himself was now tightly closed as savage creatures shifted closer. “_In pieces_.”

What was disguised as a choice was actually none at all, and Crowley knew it was now or never. So he dug his claws into the texture of his case and then ripped off the covering of his accessory. The stiff leather transformed into malleable cloth with one swift motion to cast it aside, revealing what lied underneath, which was not a musical instrument, but an extraordinarily large water gun.

The oversized toy appeared as if it simultaneously belonged in a 1980’s science fiction film, _ and _in a seriously bad ass six-year-old girl’s toy chest. The weapon of mass destruction was as long as his arm, and as bulky as an overstuffed suitcase. Hoses, storage tank compartments, and star-shaped nozzles on a trio of rotary barrels were colored in pink, yellow, orange, and white-- disgustingly bright colors that had no place in Hell. Giant words, ‘SuperSoaker Ultra Monster XXXL 5000’ pronounced themselves proudly on the side of the gun.

Anthony J. Crowley brandished the terrifying device with a grand spin, clasping both hands upon the bulky thing as if it were a Gatling gun. “Fellas, say hello to my little friend!” Water audibly sloshed within it, and every demon in the room fled for their lives as he laughed maniacally at a joke only he understood the reference to. This was just as entertaining as he’d hoped it would be.

The demons cowered and blubbered, screeched and begged. Crowley whirled this way and that, maneuvering the gun to aim it at each beast in turn as if deciding which insect to drown first, enjoying watching the ripple of reactions that passed wherever his weapon pointed.

Lord Beelzebub only bristled and grimaced, but she did not move. “You’re _ insane,_” she seethed in disbelief. Or awe, one of the two.

“Right you are, Bub,” he drawled acidicly, finally turning the nozzles towards her and lifting the plastic stock against his shoulder. He stood there aiming it at her for a hot second or two, wishing, _ oh wishing_, that he _ actually _ had Holy Water packed behind that trigger. The destruction and chaos he could cause. The _ good _he could do.

Not today. Someday, perhaps. He could dream.

He returned the cheerfully-colored SuperSoaker to his hip, letting it hang on the strap across his shoulder and spreading his empty arms to address the traumatized room. “Really, _ all _ this _ trouble! _” Wincing as if it were embarrassing-- for the lot of them-- he shook his head and mockingly pleaded to the Lord of Flies. “I just want to browse the directory. Is that too much to ask?”

Lord Beelzebub still did not move or react, only glaring up into his snake eyes with the excitement of a forgotten corpse buried in her orbs’ dulled depths.

The silence dragged on as the other demons started to calm from their panic, again noticing their leader’s lack of fear, and clinging to it. Crowley’s uneasiness returned, masked with anger. He didn’t have time to allow them to _ doubt _ and _ think_. He also didn’t have any backup plan. So the demon bravely stepped forward to place himself in the Prince’s personal space, craning his head down above her with a slow snarl, “I ask, _ nicely_, once more. Permission to _ passss? _”

The room would have been silent enough for one to lose their mind with the sheer vacancy of sound, had it not been for his threatening hiss echoing against the concrete walls. Every demon froze and held their foul breath in terror. They were shocked into disbelief that he had done the unspeakable-- stand up to and threaten the Prince. Crowley had never heard Hell so silent, or felt so many demons _ so _scared. 

They were no longer afraid _ of _ him. They were afraid _ for _him.

Beelzebub did not grimace or snarl back. Instead, she smiled.

The smile would haunt the demons’ nightmares for eons to come. It almost broke Crowley’s frail facade of confidence, and he stepped back again, hiding the trembling of his hand by pressing it to the side of his water gun.

“I’ll escort you.” Beelzebub answered, boldly turning her back to the traitor and then leading the way through the crowd, which parted even wider than before. The other demons did all they could to press themselves against the very walls, and Crowley glanced around nervously before following her.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was escorting him to his death. Relief and fear tangled together in the atmosphere of the room they left behind.

* * *

In the dim corridor, pale fluorescent lights flickered and shorted above them. Crowley’s saunter was imbalanced, his steps occasionally lopsided as if he were tipsy, though he did try to conceal it. Beelzebub marched forward with military straightness, although also with the dragging heels and swaying shoulders of a zombie.

“That was a dangerous stunt, Crowley.”

Crowley remained silent, his worry buried tightly beneath his glasses.

“Tell me, where did you get so much Holy Water?” Her voice echoed mildly through the empty corridor, no longer needing to harness a commanding boom to address a crowd. She only possessed one subject now.

“...I have friends in high places.” Crowley shrugged, reacting with a slight snootiness as if she had asked him where he found such an expensive dress that was far out of his league.

“And I have business partners in high places,” she countered coolly, still focused forward as she led the way down the endless hall.

“....Perhaps mine are more generous than yours.” Crowley muttered quietly, glancing to the side as a distant sound of hellish torment arrived in the air like a kettle’s faint scream.

“Or foolish.”

He stayed silent.

Beelzebub stopped as if recalling a detail she’d missed earlier, then slowly turned to face him. “Why have you come here with such a powerful weapon, and not pulled the trigger?” She asked, eyeing the colorful toy before turning her eyes up to him.

He didn’t know if she was beginning to see through his ruse, or if she had seen through it all along and was only now addressing him directly about it. He knew that doubts and second guesses would turn his clever mind to mush, and so he answered quickly, “As I said, I only wish to browse the directory.” She didn’t react, so he added with a sneer, “Not commit a massacre.”

“Lucky us. Not so traitorous after all, then?” She lifted one cystic eyebrow.

He shrugged and extended his bottom lip, admitting with a rapid series of nods, “I could be worse, yeah.”

“I’m glad you are not,” she told him with exaggerated consonants. “For _your _sake.”

The Prince of Hell turned on her heel and continued walking again, her hands behind her back and her shoulders square. “It is risky displaying such power moves here, Crowley.” The lesser demon hesitantly followed after her again, his fingertips silently playing a percussive tune against the plastic gun hanging beside his hip. “I’ll have you know that I do not wish to kill you, but you _ test _me. I will do what is necessary to keep this Pit under control.”

His fingers stopped fidgeting, and he craned his head forward with a tilt. “...Did you say you... _ don’t _wish to kill me?”

“Not all of the time. Only _ most _ of the time.” Beelzebub sighed. She continued walking as she drawled on. “The unfortunate truth is that you are valuable to us. Even if you are volatile. That’s why we stationed you up _ there_, Crowley, so you could cause chaos _ elsewhere_.” Turning her pale head over one shoulder, she glared at him for a few steps. “I do not appreciate you bringing it down here.”

Crowley was perplexed. Was he being _complimented?_ In _Hell?_ _Now, _of all occasions? His steps slowed as he now followed her in some auto-piloted trance while his mind whirled to comprehend what she was saying to him. “Your potential is astounding. No demon has ever caused as much trouble as you have, Crowley.”

She paused to smirk to herself. “Except, perhaps, Satan himself.”

A chill ran down his dark wings, and his feathers bristled. He did not enjoy being compared to _ Satan_, of all demons, but it was impossible to deny that it was a bloody _grand_ comparison. It was as if he'd suddenly been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize-- except, well, the complete opposite. He gawked as Beelzebub continued.

“You have rebellion in your blood, like him.” She smirked ever so slightly. “But I cannot show tolerance of your misbehavior, much less reward you for it. You understand.”

Reward him for it?

“I see terrible things in you.”

In Hell language, that translated to ‘I see great things in you,’ and Crowley was stunned to hear such validation and approval from one of the least expected sources.

“I think that spending so much time with humans _has _made you different than us, in a worse way. Mankind can be incredibly cruel, and you have witnessed it firsthand for the total duration of its existence. You’ve learned a lot about pain from them, even if you don’t quite realize it.”

He had?

She stopped again. They had come to a vault door, with a giant hand crank ironed upon it that looked like a pirate ship's wheel. She turned to face him, smirking sinisterly again. “Keep up the bad work, Crowley.” He flinched as she suddenly reached forward, but her fingers did not dig into his skin. Instead, her boiled and bruised palm rested _ nicely _upon his arm. And it remained there for an uncomfortably long minute. A touch of malicious praise, and pride.

“I’ll let you get to your _ buzziness_.” The Prince of Hell then removed her putrid hand, gave his SuperSoaker one last caustic glance, and then marched away, leaving the demon petrified. “Be _ quick _about it.” She called sharply, snapping him back to his senses with a familiar sting of harshness.

He had not expected to receive some twisted sort of _kindness_ from the Lord of Flies. He didn’t know what to think, he was so surprised. He hesitantly reached up to the door of the vault, beginning to unlatch the bolts.

He stopped when her voice echoed to him again. “And Crowley. When your _ friend _ in high places _ falls_, then perhaps we can discuss... a promotion?”

A promotion. After all this time, and all this work. Something he’d always thought he greatly deserved but no longer desired, especially now. Especially not on _ that _condition.

He did not turn to look at her as she continued. “You’d have well earned it. No demon has ever tempted an angel as you have. It is quite impressive.”

More compliments. For horrible things.

“I’m sure it was not easy, at first, to hold his attention.”

It wasn't.

“But it _ will _happen, eventually.”

Crowley closed his eyes and pressed his teeth together.

“_Inevitably_, with time.”

He’d wanted to do bad work. He’d wanted to be appreciated and recognized for it. But he did not want Aziraphale to fall. He did not want to do _ that _ bad of work. He did not want to be praised and revered for _ that _ accomplishment.

But what an accomplishment it would be.

No, it had never been his intention to lure Aziraphale downward. _Never_. Not for one instant.

It had also never been his intention to personally fall in the first place, but there he was. A Demon, Slave of Hell, Bringer of Darkness, and Curator of Malevolence. And what did Demons, Slaves of Hell, Bringers of Darkness, and Curators of Malevolence do? Wicked, surreptitious, heinous, sinful things. It was in their nature, and it was part of their cursed banishment from Heaven.

Maybe it would be best-- better, _ good-- _if he didn’t return to the angel after all. If he instead changed his vow into a lie, broke the bookkeeper's heart, and caused him more worry.

No, he couldn’t do that terrible of a thing to the angel either. Shit, Crowley was _ fucked _no matter what he did.

With a building snarl, he whirled around to face the hall behind him, desiring to direct his anger at Lord Beelzebub, or anything else he could spot. To fight back against her words and the thoughts they created. But the corridor was empty. He had been left to his own inner torment. Hissing in the lonely emptiness, he glared at the vault again before digging his grip onto the steel hatch and wrenching it open with all his force. The wheel spun viciously and the great door slowly creaked open on old rusted hinges.

The demon was confused, and that was exactly what Beelzebub had wanted. She’d manipulated his humanized emotions and now he felt lost and cornered within his own plagued mind. What was he_ doing? _ Good, bad? Wrong, right? What _ should _ he and what _ shouldn't _ he be doing? It used to be so _ simple_, but it no longer was.

This really was Hell.

Crowley stepped into the vault and threw the door closed behind him, wrenching the bolts in place to lock himself in. Seething, he dropped his forehead to the door, and then slunk down to sit up against it, grimacing at the ceiling as if he were enraged at his nonexistent God.

Lord Beelzebub had been right. Crowley had spent too much time with the humans, and had learned too intimately of their pains. He realized what she'd meant now. He was furious that she would use such sensitivities against him. No other demon would feel such emotional confusion and self doubt that he felt in that moment. No other demon would capable of comprehending this nightmare of dread, much less fall victim to it.

He felt weighed down by a bog of mental disease. Of depression, anxiety, hopelessness and others. Illnesses that only wanted to consume and feed on him. He faintly recognized that the longer he sat there letting them take him over, the more powerful they’d grow and the harder it would be to rise out of that mire of thought.

He had never wished for Aziraphale to fall.

Instead, he realized, he had wished for _himself_ to rise.

Blinking with eyelids of lead, he looked up again, without rage.

Crowley had intended to establish some sort of friendship, or at least a mutual acquaintanceship with Aziraphale, because he had intended for himself to rise. At least a little bit. He had intended to take just a small step away from Hell, and perhaps back towards Heaven. That white-winged Principality had inspired him to be a better person; a better soul. He had seen the compassionate nature of God and All That Was Holy in that Earth-bound angel. It was a kind of nature which Crowley had forgotten about and given up on long ago. The kind of compassionate nature which Aziraphale had reminded him of, and reintroduced him to.

Thinking of Aziraphale-- of the unruly blonde locks upon his head and the twinkle in his crow-footed eyes when he smiled, of his love of books and hot cocoa, and of his stupid fucking magic tricks which he found so much delight in-- eased the demon's pain and soothed his fearful mind.

'I want you to come back, afterwards. Can you do that for me?'  
  
In that moment, there had been more than a glimpse of worry in Aziraphale's eyes. It had been a glimpse of a pure terror in that brave guardian's celestial soul. It was short-lived only because of the trust and faith he had in Crowley. Such a terrible look would return to the angel if Crowley did not, and it was very possible that the damage caused would be more irreparable and eternal than the burn upon his wings should he fall due to their friendship.

The demon had to return to Aziraphale.

With a puff of hot breath from his cheeks, Crowley hauled himself forward and rose up to his feet. They would work out the threat of Aziraphale's fall later, _together_, on Earth. Sentencing himself to solitary imprisonment down here would do no good, and spare the angel no pain.

Right now, he had a task to complete. He had to find Adam’s name, or at least ensure that it was not in the directory at all.

And then, he had to return to his angel, as promised. For good or for worse.


	3. In Which Aziraphale Goes to Heaven

The ‘automatic’ glass doors to Heaven politely slid open as Aziraphale timidly stepped through them. No security cameras peered down at him as he entered the holy space, but he felt as if there were a thousand eyes drilling into him.

The top floor was as vast and empty as a warehouse. Or an open shooting range. He felt like a fawn walking into a suspiciously quiet field during hunting season. Every inch of the building was made of white marble with no trace of flawed grey in its composition, more sterile than Earth’s most prestigious and regulated hospitals.

The scent of clean water vapor lingered in the air, like what one could expect when walking into a zenful spa. But Aziraphale never felt relaxed in here. Heaven was incredibly well-lit, as if the walls themselves produced light. It was not the sun’s light, like that which bathed and warmed the Earth. This light was holy. This light was cold, like brilliantly glowing snow, and as intense as an interrogation bulb. 

All eyes and wings turned as he stepped into the room. Aziraphale gave a brief smile and executed a little wave, doing his best to conceal his nervousness as he gave a generic greeting to his coworkers. “G-good morning.” 

He realized all too late that the Earthly greeting didn’t make any sense up here. It wasn’t morning. They were beyond the sun and time didn’t exist at all. He tried to ignore his embarrassment, and continued walking straight toward the Directory.

Aziraphale worked hard to keep his steps slow and reverent, doing his best to not disturb the tense peace. He took a deep silent breath, trying to gather some peace within his own mind. This was his home. It was _ supposed _ to be, anyway. It was his _ original _ home, and he had no reason to feel out-of-place or unwelcome here. Except that the last time he visited (at least, the last time that his _ vessel _ had visited) his brethren had sentenced him to burn in Hellfire.

Water under the bridge.

He continued along his way, his steps calm and measured-- only slightly less confident and graceful than everyone else’s. He could hear them whispering about him. They didn’t try to hide it in the least bit. Heaven echoed pristinely, giving the marble walls voices as well as ears.

The sudden presence of another angel behind his shoulder made Aziraphale jump. “**_Hey_ ** Aziraphale!” 

The bookkeeper eased his nerves, running a hand down his vest to straighten the buttons along his center line. “Gabriel,” he answered, half in greeting and half in subtle scolding. When he was more certain that his attire was perfectly presentable, he turned over his shoulder to force a smile at the Archangel.

Hesitantly, and with as much manners as he could muster, Aziraphale asked, “Do you get a kick out of doing that?” A twinge of irritation still lingered in his tone, but it went unnoticed.

“Maybe just a little.” Gabriel’s smile was as bright and fake as a politician's. He began laughing, clearly believing that he was being affable and comedic. Aziraphale’s short laughter was much more forced and weak, tapered with an, “Ohh Lord.” that was hopefully quiet enough for the man not to hear.

The bookkeeper turned around to continue heading towards the Directory. Gabriel followed on his heels, hovering so close that Aziraphale feared stopping, convinced the Archangel would bump right into him if he did. “Soooo, what brings you here?” Gabriel crooned, making friendly small talk as if they were old neighbors catching up. If that were the case, then Gabriel was certainly comparable to the president of their strict HOA.

“I'm just going to take a gander through the Directory, and then I’ll be on my way.” Aziraphale assured, as if trying to assuage a territorial predator.

“Ah, the Directory, right.” Gabriel’s louder shoes echoed as he stepped right behind the bookkeeper. “What for, might I ask?”

“Personal business.”_Which was none of yours, _ Aziraphale added internally. He was almost to the door. At least, that’s what he told himself. Really, it appeared football fields away.

“Ah, ‘personal business,’ I see.” Gabriel repeated, scrutinizing his every word and making no effort to pretend like he wasn’t. He was walking directly beside him now. “Is that… the same as _ angelic _ business, or something else, now? I’m curious.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond. He had stopped walking, and was now struggling to come up with an answer that was honest-- or at least convincing. He gave up, caught without proper words. Changing subjects, and just realizing something, he glanced up into the Archangel’s piercing, smiling eyes, and pointed out, “Gabriel, you're blocking my way.”

Gabriel had somehow slipped in front of him under the cover of his distracting question. The Archangel acted surprised, and glanced at the place where he stood. “Oh, right, my apologies.” His grin was as white as the walls. Yet he did not move.

“...You're still blocking my way.” Aziraphale smiled back, uneasy and increasingly peeved. He was not as gifted at putting on a fake face. “Might I get through?” He politely gestured forward.

Gabriel was waiting for something, tilting his head expectantly.

Aziraphale blinked slowly and then emphasized calmly, reluctantly giving in._ "Please?” _

Gabriel’s smile shone, and he stepped aside with a presentation of his arm. “By all means. Be my guest.” 

Despite his show of diplomacy, Aziraphale got the _ real _ message loud and clear. Gabriel was reminding the bookkeeper that he was a guest in a house that was not his own. Not anymore.

Aziraphale smiled and nodded in gratitude, pardoning him and stepping forward.

But Gabriel had not moved out of the way as much as he could have. It was clear that Aziraphale would have to step slightly aside to get around him and avoid rubbing shoulders. 

Perhaps, _ before_, Aziraphale would have certainly done that.

But _ now,_ Aziraphale did not. He made the bold decision to stick to his straightforward path, and they lightly brushed shoulders as Aziraphale passed.

Gabriel’s smile faded as soon as Aziraphale was behind him. Similarly, in brief privacy, Aziraphale’s expression shifted to one that revealed his patience was being tested. He stepped through the door to the Directory.

* * *

Heaven’s Soul Directory used to be a library; sorted and labeled with rolling panels that swept and soared on serpentine tracks, all the lists hanging nicely and straight. It had been very orderly, without a speck of age or dust. Everything uniform. Everything perfect. Names scrawled with great care in gold calligraphy and colored embellishments.

That was how Aziraphale remembered it, anyway. Now, the Directory was an endless, empty room with a single touch-screen tablet of sorts, poised on a glass pedestal in the center of the blanc void. Aziraphale took in the sight of the modernized database with a tightness in his cheeks.

“Oh, didn’t you get the memo? We upgraded.” Gabriel was still right behind his shoulder.

“I did not.” After punctuating his consonants, Aziraphale pressed a smile across his lips. “But clearly, you did indeed… upgrade.” He stepped towards the tablet, eyeing it like it was an untrustworthy foe. There were no buttons or switches upon it at all. He worried that he was supposed to say some kind of password, or perhaps wave at it. Clap, even? Or snap? Damn it all.

“Would you like me to search for you?” Gabriel piped ‘helpfully,’ watching the Earthly angel approach it.

“No.” Aziraphale sighed, then employed his manners with a half turn towards his unwanted companion. “But that is kind of you to offer."

Stopping in front of the tablet, he gave it a parental look that asked it to cooperate nicely, and then reached a finger to its surface. His simple touch unlocked the screen, and he regained his confidence. He then began tapping and swiping through the menus to search for ‘Young, Adam,’ by birth date.

Gabriel looked a little miffed as he loomed over Aziraphale’s shoulder-- not touching him, but only just barely. His relentless _ looming _ proved to be uncomfortable. But Aziraphale knew this game well. He’d _ invented _ it, back on Earth, when customers came into his shop to peruse his precious books. He did well to ignore Gabriel, even if it was rude. Gabriel wasn’t used to being ignored, for it was _ quite _ rude and angels weren’t _ supposed _to be rude. Not blatantly, anyway. Aziraphale had no fear of being rude. Not to Gabriel. Not anymore. 

“Is there anything I can fetch for you? Cup of tea, perhaps?”

Aziraphale focused on the screen at his fingertips, scrolling through a list of names. He accidentally touched an incorrect one and then tried to navigate his way out of the extensive biography and other files that popped up with it. There was no ‘back’ button, or ‘close’ button. Everything was done by this mad game of swiping digital pages in various directions, or using multiple fingers to draw a shape of motion, or something. Oh, how he wished Crowley had come up here instead. He would have been over and done with this by now. The tablet continued to be frustrating, but the bookkeeper was getting the hang of it. Slowly.

“Aziraphale, I asked you a question.”

“Oh, right. No, I’m quite alright, thank you.” He glanced back briefly, bumping against the man in the process. He was hovering extremely close, well within the bounds of a ‘personal bubble’ that humans seemed to unanimously understand and honor between one another.

Gabriel didn’t let up. “I could--”

Aziraphale interrupted, “Ooh, actually!” Throwing up a finger and turning around again, as if he had thought of something, he continued, “You could…” But then it was abruptly clear that he hadn’t. In the moment of silence he had gained, he dropped a single word. “Leave.”

The blonde flashed a bright smile at the Archangel behind his shoulder, who was visibly taken aback by the unexpectedly blunt suggestion. _Damn, that’d felt good. _For once, Aziraphale felt no fear whatsoever in talking back to his boss. It was quite liberating, and the pleasure he received from it was almost sinful.

Taking advantage of the Archangel’s stunned silence, Aziraphale continued, placing his hands together and tilting his fingers forward. “I assure you, I can handle my _ personal _ business just fine on my own. But, again, thank you, _ truly_, for your _ unrequited _ hospitality. I do _ so _ appreciate it.” Aziraphale delivered each dash of kindness in his words relentlessly, like tiny paper cuts of passive-aggressive politeness.

Gabriel had never received a taste of his own medicine before, least of all from Aziraphale. His plastic smile actually broke for once, but he made up for it with a recovering beam that was even more false than before. “Oh. Alright.” He pocketed his hands in his silver coat and stepped back. Aziraphale returned to his task of navigating the tablet, relieved that Gabriel was no longer breathing down his neck.

“But I would hurry up with whatever you’re looking for,” his supervisor suggested helpfully. The man was at a much more comfortable distance, but still not appearing to leave anytime soon.

“Oh, I will, trust me.” Aziraphale called. It would go a lot faster if he wasn’t distracted. He certainly didn’t want to linger any longer than necessary.

“Because I’ll have you know that in a few moments’ time, you will be summoned to the terrace.”

Aziraphale stopped finagling with the screen, his brow furrowing upon his bowed head. “What for?”

“Your Retrial."

Aziraphale looked up from the tablet, placing his gaze on the far side of the endless white room, where the horizon vanished in an abyss of white light. “...Retrial?”

“Yes. The last one evidently didn’t work out so well.”

Aziraphale’s inhuman heart thumped in his chest and he took a large breath to calm it. “Well, that’s just wonderful, isn’t it?'

_ “I _ think so.”

The bookkeeper cleared his throat silently, turning his attention to the tablet again, though it was much more difficult to concentrate now than before. “Trial by Hellfire, again?” He tried to uphold a poker face of indifference. He was supposed to be immune to it, after all, so there was no reason for him to show his fear. The only trouble was-- he _wasn't_ immune to it. He shouldn’t have made a joke earlier about flaming booby traps.

“Oh, no, no.” Gabriel chuckled as if the idea were comical. “This one is Trial by Combat.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale relaxed, earnestly donning a brief smile of relief, and continued scrolling through names with renewed focus. “Might I ask who my opponent is?”

“You’re speaking to him.”

The bookkeeper’s finger paused for a moment before it continued scrolling again. Tilting his head, Aziraphale murmured bitterly, “I should have guessed.” An Archangel against a Principality. That was not a fair fight in the slightest. But Aziraphale supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything different.

“I hope it isn’t too bold of me to say I’m looking forward to it.” Gabriel chirped, as if they were scheduled to play a harmless yet appropriately competitive game of golf with each other, as men of business commonly did. “It’s not often that angels are able to ‘_ have at it,_’ as they say.” He performed a little movement displaying some form of sadistic merriment. “Are you looking forward to it as well?”

Aziraphale accidentally opened another wrong file. He took a deep breath and figured out how to go to the previous screen. “Afraid not. You see, I have some rather urgent business to attend to and I would prefer if this was scheduled for another time.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.” Gabriel’s empathy was as hollow as the bones in his wings.

Aziraphale managed to return to the list again, and was relieved to find the bottom of it. The Adam he was looking for was not on it, which meant the boy’s soul was either in Hell or back on Earth. Either way, it meant Aziraphale could leave. Unless this Retrial nonsense remained an obstacle. Turning around, the bookkeeper sighed at his near-future opponent, “Gabriel, really. May we_‘have at it’ _some other time?”

Gabriel made a face, feigning to contemplate compromising. As if the decision were out of his hands-- which it certainly was not-- he shook his head helplessly and echoed, “Afraid not.”

Aziraphale sighed, stepping away from the tablet. “Gabriel, a life is at stake.”

“Indeed.” The Archangel murmured, not caring one bit. Nodding, he winced, “I would worry about _your_ _own_.” 

Aziraphale was starting to grow upset. “It’s _ Adam_, Gabriel.” That didn’t seem to ring a bell. “The Ex-Antichrist?”

“Oh, right, right.” Gabriel tilted away his poor memory.

“He’s in trouble.” Aziraphale explained tersely, his patience wearing thin.

Gabriel only shrugged, “So?” and then laughed.

Aziraphale looked hurt. “‘_So?’ _What do you mean ‘so?’” And then he looked angry.

“Humans die all the time, Aziraphale.” The supervisor bent at the knees and spread his hands, which were still within his pockets, opening his coat. “There’s no way you haven’t noticed that by now, come on,” he continued laughing as if the bookkeeper was pulling his leg; caring about a pest as disposable and insignificant as a fly.

Aziraphale pressed his teeth together.

“Another Antichrist will pop up in due time, don’t you worry!” Gabriel unsheathed one hand to lay out the chain of events. “Then we’ll have this whole apocalypse charade all over again! Properly, this time, I hope. Heaven versus Hell, our inevitable triumph, all that excitement.” He pointed to Aziraphale, his tone transitioning to a teasing and condescending one. “Now, you don’t want to be on the _losing_ _side_ when that time comes, do you?”

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows. “Are you implying...?”

“Look. I don’t know if you _ remember _ how this _ works… _ ” Gabriel took a step towards him, again gesturing with his hands. “But you have two options, Aziraphale. Lose this Trial by Combat, and _ die-- _ ” That was clearly the Archangel's preferred outcome. “Or…” He laughed once more, as if the second option were far less likely. _ Ridiculous_, even. “_Win_, and be found guilty of unjustly murdering another angel.” He took one hand out of his coat pocket to point at his own broad chest. “In which case, you will instantly _ fall_.”

Either way, Aziraphale would lose. That seemed to be all Gabriel cared about. Trials in Heaven and Hell were not the same as trials on a more civilized Earth, where humans had discovered the sensical concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ A trail in Heaven or Hell was a sentencing.

“But not to worry, old friend.” Gabriel clapped a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, making him flinch from the small blow. “I won’t let you fall,” he smiled as if he was about to do the bookkeeper a great favor.

Aziraphale had had enough of this. He was very angry indeed, but he knew that was exactly what Gabriel wanted him to be. He was provoking him with every word. Equipping a wave of calmness over himself, Aziraphale released his anger with a deep breath and closed his eyes, recollecting his patience. “Fine, then we’ll have a Retrial.” There was no getting out of it. “But as I said, I have important business to attend to, so you’ll forgive me for making it quick.” There was no threat in his tone. He may as well have been talking about a run to the bank.

Gabriel chuckled, “That’s funny. You picked up some humor on that little space rock, did you?” then scoffed with a dash of anger leaking through his next question, “You really think _ you _ can beat _ me?” _

Aziraphale elaborated, “I have no intention of killing you.”

“It’s a Trial by Combat, did you not hear me? There’s only once victor. If you win, you will be _ punished_. You will fall.”

“I will not fall.” Aziraphale promised before placing a few of his own gentle points in Gabriel’s direction. “I have done nothing worthy of punishment, and I don’t intend to do anything worthy of punishment. And if I have, or ever do, then God will be the Judge of that. Not you, not these silly Trials.”

_Wow!”_ It appeared that the mere size of Gabriel’s smile was painful to him. "You are so…” He pinched his fingers together as if he wanted to squash the Principality like a bug. _“Arrogant!”_ he finished, finally finding the appropriate word. There was an entire list of them spinning through his head like a lottery wheel. “And foolish!” Gabriel picked another word out of the hat. “Do you really think that associating with a _demon_ for leisure is not a punishable offense?” He spat the word as if it were poison in his mouth.

It was clear now that that was the real problem, here. _ Crowley_. Not anything else Aziraphale had done. Not abandoning his post, not stopping the apocalypse. That was all just extra, petty fluff. What they were most upset by-- what Gabriel specifically was most upset by-- was his affiliation with Crowley. In his eyes, he saw their friendship as a vile, repulsive, unholy thing.

That was when something changed within the bookkeeper.

There was a new nature of calmness laced throughout his warm tone. “It disappoints me that you see me as a victim of my choices, Gabriel. It disappoints me that you do not have the faith in me, and perhaps even the faith in God, that I may be doing the right thing here.”

Gabriel was greatly confused, and even more offended. “The ‘right’ thing?” He seethed.

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “I have no doubt that you are familiar with the second commandment. Do you remember what it is?” Before Gabriel could finish crafting his expression of disgust, Aziraphale recited, “‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour.’”

“They are _ not _our neighbors,” the Archangel spat. 

Aziraphale had never seen him so angry, yet it brought him no fear. What was Gabriel going to do, fight him? That was already on the agenda. And if he did such a thing outside of the ring, then he’d be reprimanded for it. To boot, Aziraphale rather enjoyed seeing his grey feathers bristled, but the blonde tried to be humble about it. “Aren’t they?” he questioned, smiling lightly as Gabriel cringed. Angels _hated _questions as bold as those.

The Earthly angel was no fool. He knew that Gabriel had felt _ doubt _ for the very first time after the non-apocalypse. That was when the Archangel’s universe-- and the perception he had of it-- had been shaken to the core. Clearly, as a coping mechanism, he’d decided to blame Aziraphale for it. The Principality felt no remorse in being _ different_, for once. It was true that he had tested previous assumptions, broken the rules, and lived to show that it was possible. That _ so much _ was possible beyond what other angels had previously believed to be possible. On Earth, they called that ‘being a wild card.’

The bookkeeper maintained his momentum in their power shift. Aziraphale now presented the idea of another shakeup, another sort of ‘apocalypse,’ to Gabriel. He was aiming for the Archangel’s weak spot. His greatest fears and insecurities. “Did you ever think that maybe this… ‘associating with a demon for leisure’ would result _ not _in my fall, but instead in his rise?”

Angels hated questions like those the most. “That’s profane! _ Demons cannot rise!” _Gabriel looked as if he were about to have an aneurysm.

Aziraphale tilted his head, supposing politely, “Perhaps this one can.” He couldn’t help but imagine the scenario, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with the sheer delight in his expression. “That would be pretty awkward for you, wouldn’t it?”

Then, in the near distance, three brass bells rang.

Their simple tone was deep and droning, their last note lingering and reverberating through the air. Gabriel's anger dispersed instantly. He sighed, glanced at the door, and then smoothed down his coat. “Well. Time to go.”

Aziraphale’s confidence plummeted as he felt the calling resonate within his soul. It was time for the Trial by Combat. He was completely unable to resist obeying it. The three bells repeated as more chimed in, calling together the inhabitants of Heaven to the terrace as if it were time for an additional, obligatory mass. The low notes were simultaneously beautiful and eerie.

“After you.” Gabriel gestured to the door with another smile. This one was unashamedly cruel.

With a tiny glare and a large swallow, Aziraphale stepped forward and led the way to the terrace. He did not enjoy the icy feeling of Gabriel behind his back, though there was no danger in his presence. Not yet.


	4. In Which Crowley Leaves Hell

Hell’s Soul Directory was a disorganized vault of chaos. It was where names were dumped in whatever haphazard manner seemed easiest or cruelest at the time of a soul’s collection. It appeared like a mail room designed by Pablo Picasso, with tube shoots and letter flaps lining the ceiling and walls, all either clogged, broken, dusty, grimy, or all of the above. The world’s worst hoarder would turn green and faint at the sight.

Names were not only scrawled on tattered, worn, yellowed paper, but also on a variety of other wasteful materials, including pieces of soggy cardboard that reeked of piss, colored paper that was the same shade as the highlighter used to mark it, Nutrition labels that once belonged to pasta boxes, and toilet paper scraps-- some of which were undoubtedly used, others only dirtied by Hell’s soil (which was arguably worse,) and all of which were indistinguishable. In nearly every case, the names were illegible, backwards, scrambled, and posing every kind of inconvenience you could think of.

Obviously, names and the souls that they once belonged to were not kept with great care in Hell. That was part of the whole negative-billion-star guest package. Their previous identities were not bound in books or folders of any sort of organized fashion. They were doomed to be forever forgotten and neglected, strewn about and dirtied, muddied and torn, all in some mangled form or other. Just a nameless wail in a sea of wretched pain; that was all that was usually left of souls down here. It wasn't like anyone ever went looking for them.

Except this demon.

Crowley picked up the papers with the tips of his pinched claws, peering at the damned things over the rim of his glasses with a dreadful squint. “That’s not it.” He tossed the trash aside and picked at another one.

He needed to find, _ ‘Adam Young.’ _ As much as he’d like this chore to be finished with, he didn’t _ want _ to find the name. He _ feared _ that he might find it. But most of all, he heavily doubted that he _ would _find it. Nonetheless, he had vowed to scour every single name in the vault so that when he returned to his angel he could say with complete certainty that their Adam was not in the Directory.

Aziraphale would be very relieved to hear it. Crowley believed it was worth all the effort to soothe his friend’s worries.

Some Hellrats had used the cleanest of papers to make nests in the nooks and crannies of the room. They were currently employed (perhaps the proper word was ‘enslaved’) by the demon, trotting between him and their nests with shreds of material in their rotten little teeth as involuntary offerings.

Kneeling in a small clearing of the room, he worked through the piles of their ‘gifts’ first, acting as the executive foreman over some wacked-up assembly line of minions. That, or some grungy, cranky, punk-goth Disney princess in the middle of a cleaning spree with the local wildlife. “No, that’s not it either. Look for an _ ‘A.’ _ Rather, look for a _ ‘Y,’ _ there’s much less of those.” One could almost see the Hellrats roll their eyes as they trotted away with the rejected slips of garbage. There would be no merry ‘singing while you work’ in this caustic castle.

There was a little glimpse of some kind of emotion or other when Crowley recalled that his own name was in here, somewhere. His angelic one. The name that had been discarded and burned when he had fallen. He knew he wouldn’t recognize it even if he stumbled across it, so it was not worth thinking about for more than an instant. He focused on finding ‘Adam Young.’

He felt his cold dark heart leap into his throat when he found it.

“Shhhhit,” he snapped, stretching the note and peering at it more closely. Those were definitely the right combination of letters. But his fears calmed as he held the paper between his fingers, running his thumb across the illegible scrawlings again. And again. No, that was not their Adam Young. It was a different one. He could feel it. This one had been an adult when he’d died. And old man, perhaps. He’d been a real wanker, and spent considerable time incarcerated prior to this eternal sentence.

“Wrong Adam.” Crowley tossed the paper aside with a mixture of relief and irritation, then called to the Hellrats like the slave driver he was, “Keep looking!” With a long sigh, he wondered to himself how many wrong Adams he had to go through. Rubbing his temples, he answered himself, _ as many as it took _. One thing was for sure, he was glad that Aziraphale had not tasked himself with sorting though this mess. The bookkeeper would have had the universe’s greatest conniption at the sight of the room.

Crowley became so busy with his work that he didn’t notice a few maggots creepily crawling into the vault from one of the vents. More and more crept into the room, frothing in a pile that rose into the form of a man. Crowley noticed the Hellrats scrambling away to hide, and then caught the scent of his old friend Hastur.

It wasn't exactly a scent you could miss, even in a room as filthy as this.

The redhead turned to look behind himself-- quickly but cautiously, trying not to appear as if he were about to make any sudden stupid moves.

Duke Hastur stood motionless between him and the vault door with the last few maggots twitching into his orifices, staring vacantly with soulless, wet, black eyes. “Looking for someone?” he asked with a few shades of gravel in his voice.

Crowley hesitated, then realized it was a legitimate question, and not a rhetorical threatening greeting. “A-Adam Young,” the redhead answered after remembering with great relief that he had wisely brought a weapon with him.

The only problem was that it was resting on the ground between them, where he’d unburdened himself so he could move about the space. He hadn’t thought anyone would come in. He hadn’t thought they’d be _ able _ to, with the vault door closed and locked. He had been a fool to feel any sort of _ ‘safe’ _ in this place, even for a moment.

He refrained from showing any sign that he wanted to move towards the colorful super soaker lying dormant on the concrete floor. The last thing he wanted was to ignite a fight, or expedite the process of one inevitably starting.

Making small talk to stall for time, Crowley asked innocently, “Have you seen him?”

“The Antichrist?” Hastur raised his lip in confusion. Or disgust, it was difficult to tell.

“The one and only.” Crowley mumbled. He slowly turned to continue reading scraps of garbage from his piles, picking at them with his fingernails, which had grown longer and darker out of pure instinct of being within another demon’s untrustworthy presence. He read the poorly-written names with a greater urgency.

“Hell would be a lot different righ’ now if he were ‘ere.” Hastur stated sluggishly, his expression dull and empty. His expression was always dull and empty.

The bastard had a point. While Crowley did not doubt that Hastur would lie to him, it was also true that Hell would be much different if their ex-doombringer had returned to it. It would be teeming with sinister excitement, filled with whispers and hisses of the boy’s punishment and of the next Antichrist to follow. The walls would be trembling with Satan’s cheerful wrath.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he hesitated, thinking about it for a moment longer just to make sure his logic was not biased by his sudden desire to get the Hell out of Hell. A Hell that was most certainly _ quiet _ and _ dreary _ compared to it’s _ usual _ temperament, not to mention in the event of the return of their Unholy Son. No, Adam was not here. Crowley could search and search and read every paper in this bloody vault but he would not find the boy’s name.

“Well, thank you, Hastur.” Crowley donned a personal smile of subtlety. “You’ve spared me from wasting a tremendous amount of time here.” He tossed the paper from his hand into the air with a fanciful flourish and then stood up.

But the redhead had evidently stood up too quickly, for as he did, Hastur took a predatory step toward the gun on the ground. Crowley froze, and Hastur did as well, each behaving like two ferals that were greatly unsure of each other, and _ jumpy_. Equally quick to assume, quick to fear, and quick to act-- and therefore, equally dangerous to one another.

Crowley’s heartbeat calmed slightly as Hastur remained frozen in place, though neither of them fully relaxed.

“Have I?” Hastur asked, as if Crowley could be wrong. As if the lesser demon was still doomed to waste a tremendous amount of time there.

Crowley’s teeth slowly revealed themselves. _ “Have you?” _ he challenged lowly, urging for it to be true. Urging for the Duke to make the wiser decision and _ leave him alone, _ and therefore _ let _ him leave.

Hastur did not answer, which was either a ‘no,’ or a sign that he wasn't quite convinced yet what decision to make.

Crowley made the bold move of testing the Duke, wishing to intimidate him into backing down. The redhead took a small step towards his water gun. Hastur mirrored him at the same careful pace. Neither made any sudden moves. Neither of them lunged forward. Neither of them wanted to be the one to start a fight, lest they be the one to lose it. After that single step, they froze again at a distance that was still plenty of arm spans away, yet as always, uncomfortably close.

Crowley had measured Hastur’s confidence with that additional brave step, and he did not like what he’d found. Hastur had little to no fear in this situation. Or at least, he was doing a better job of hiding whatever fear he felt than Crowley was. Crowley peered at him through the cover of his dark lenses, which aided him in concealing his uneasiness. They were tiny little shields defending his poker face.

Because this was a gamble. It was a gamble of _ who _ would reach _ what _ first.

If Crowley reached that gun, Hastur was a dead frog. _ Supposedly_. That was the outcome that Crowley _ needed _ him to believe.

If Hastur reached Crowley before the redhead reached the gun, then Crowley was a dead snake. That would be true even if there was actual Holy Water in that plastic toy.

As if on cue (You know that they say; speak of the devil...) Hastur asked in detestation, “Issat really Holy Water in there?” glancing toward the gun for a split moment.

“I don’t think you want to find out.” Crowley bluffed with a steady shake of his head.

“Don’t I?” Hastur asked bluntly. It was difficult to read what was going through his brain, if he even had one. Human confrontation was much easier to navigate because they had _ emotion_, which could be gauged and manipulated. 

Crowley hated facing off against other demons. They were one dimensional, and soulless. They couldn’t be bought, bargained, bullied, or reasoned with. It seemed as if all they ever wanted was mindless violence, and that made them difficult to oppose. Crowley was not a gifted fighter. He was a great runner, a great hider, and could be quite frightening when he needed to be, but he was no monstrous brute. Just thinking about the highly-potential and nearing necessity of a brawl made his scales crawl.

“You don’t,” he warned, but his voice was not as forceful or strong as it should have been.

This time, Hastur took a bold and rather large step forward, testing Crowley’s confidence. Startled, Crowley matched his step and snarled, “You feeling **_lucky_**_, punk?”_ Apparently, he referenced movie quotes when he was nervous --_improperly_ referenced.

Hastur halted after his single step, but not because of Crowley’s snarl. The Duke tilted his ashen head, intrigued and confused by the strange saying and its mysterious meaning. Attempting to use the human terminology right back at the little pest, Hastur sneered, “Are _ you_, ** _punk?”_ **

‘Punk’ must have been some sort of curse word on the surface. Hastur liked it.

Crowley growled, disappointed that he was not succeeding in preventing a row. One of them was going to burst for the weapon at any second. It was palpable in the air. Or maybe the mere anticipation of that situation was what drove it into reality.

The two demons were locked in a Western stare down. A low percussive beat drummed with War in their hearts. Sweat dripped from their brows. Crowley’s fingers slyly twitched, as if he could feel the stock of his gun already in his grasp. One could almost hear a flute mimicking a coyote’s howl in the distance, and there may have been a tumbleweed rolling past them-- not that either would have noticed. Neither blinked. Neither dared take their glare off each other. Neither moved an inch. Yet.

Crowley began to panic, his anticipation chomping away at his mind far worse than Hastur’s anticipation nibbling at his. The redhead couldn’t lose this. He had to return to Aziraphale. He’d promised. He would fulfill that promise, no matter what.

Because he knew that if he didn’t, Aziraphale would sit up there worrying and waiting for him for the rest of time. Or he’d be stupid enough to come down here himself and search for Adam’s name-- or worst of all, try to dig up _ Crowley _ only to find out he’d been destroyed. None of those were acceptable outcomes, yet Crowley feared they would become reality if he did not make it back to the surface.

He _ had _ to make it back to the surface. And the only way he was going to do that was if he regained possession of that gun. Without it, he was weaponless. Powerless. A wet noodle in a literal fire fight.

So Crowley lunged.

* * *

The serpent dove for the super soaker. Simultaneously, Hastur rushed forth.

Perhaps the fact that Crowley had been the first one to make the risky move was what had secured his victory, or perhaps he truly was one lucky punk. Regardless, he slid across the floor like he was stealing a base, snatching the giant Gatling gun of ‘Holy Water’ and immediately directing its array of rotary nozzles up towards Hastur’s descending form.

The Duke balked and jumped back, unleashing a whimpering cry of surprise and fear while narrowly avoiding colliding with the barrels of massive weapon. He kept his gloved hands up and backed away as Crowley barked a triumphant _ “Ha!” _and staggered to his feet with the colorful container of sloshing fluid.

Crowley straightened himself with the gun securely in his hands, feeling his fear and tension abandon his vibrating heart. He was back in control now. Everything was going to be just fine. Some water had escaped the seams of the toy to dribble onto his leg and shoes. Hastur watched the droplets harmlessly seep into Crowley’s clothes with a cringe.

“How did you do it? How did you become immune?” he sputtered, enraged and defeated and pathetically miserable. Hastur had lost, and he knew it. There was nothing in the universe keeping Crowley from pulling that trigger and dousing him-- except his own sadistic desire to prolong the torturous anticipation, like a proper demon. He and Ligur should have never underestimated the conniving twerp.

Crowley resisted the urge to revel in his luck, side-stepping toward the vault door. “Ah, you know what they say. A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“Only angels are unharmed by Holy Water. That is the way of things.” Hastur seethed, his arms trembling as he hugged his elbows to his sides and kept his hands raised in surrender. His wet abyssal eyes glanced everywhere upon the floor, hesitant to lift them. When he did, he saw that Crowley’s greatest interest was still in _ leaving_, not in using his Godly weapon.

Crowley was a little distracted, contemplating how he was going to crank open the handle to the door and keep the massive gun aimed at the Duke at the same time. “Well, ways change,” he called, pulling the gun’s strap over his head to rest it on one of his shoulders.

Hastur lowered his hands. “You one of _ them _ now, Crowley? Is that it?”

Crowley stopped his progress towards the door to display a full sneer at the Duke.

“Did that _ pretty boy _ convert you into a ‘blessed’ _ angel _ again, ye double-crossin’ _ Traitor?” _ Hastur asked, acidic hatred in his voice as he clenched his fists and faced the lesser demon squarely.

The anger that boiled within Crowley at hearing such an insult was enough to override his wariness. So Crowley bore his fangs, let his super soaker hang loose at his hip, lowered his bare claws to his sides, and stepped toward the Duke. The skin on his cheekbones and forehead cracked to reveal obsidian scales underneath. His sunglasses no longer contained the rekindled embers beneath them.

The serpentine shapes of his demonic horns sprouted from his skull and his wings blocked out the fluorescent lights of the vault overhead. A shadow-built tail whipped behind him, causing nearby papers to flee and flutter. Sharp serrated rattles at the tip of the appendage were barbed like fishhooks. Crowley’s throat glowed with a sizzling fire behind his trachea as he spoke with a thousand voices. ** _"Đ𝛐 𝖏 ỺѺ𝛐ᶄ ȽɉԞə ᥑπ Ąռ𝚐əȽ ߙ𝛐 𐍅𝛐ʯ?"_ **

Hastur answered the display of aggression out of instinct. His body opened in various arbitrary places with swiss-cheese holes that crawled with internal maggots and worms. His slimy pale skin became even more adorned with pustules and cysts and the warts of a toad.

But he deflated as quickly as he had reacted, returning to his usual human-like (though more accurately, zombie-like) appearance. “No.” he exhaled sourly, backing down from the challenge. “Not at all.” The maggots calmed and receded within the pockets of his flesh, which poorly healed over.

After a while, Crowley‘s physicality calmed as well. The shadowy image of his tail faded, the horns upon his head grew in reverse, his wings folded back into non-existence, and his skin healed over his scales. After burning his glare into the Duke for a few moments longer, he turned his back and stormed to the vault door to leave.

Hastur seethed as he watched him crank open the wheel to the door. His white claws were fidgeting. Clenching the empty air at his sides. He seemed to inadvertently sniffle as he breathed, as if eternally sickly and congested. Black, wet, soulless eyes fixed upon the super soaker hanging at the redhead’s hip.

Crowley stepped back as the door creaked open, revealing the endless hallway where he and Lord Beelzebub had walked. The passageway didn’t look all that endless anymore. Perhaps because her presence was no longer cursing it, or perhaps because he was on his way out, not in.

He took his first step forward, then was yanked two steps backward by the hand that had lashed out to grab his gun strap.

* * *

_ “Let go!” _Crowley snarled with a desperate anger, twisting and clawing at the Duke. Hastur did not flinch at the scratches, wrestling to bring the weapon into his control. They fought over it the way that petulant siblings fought over a toy they were meant to share, pushing, swiping, tearing, punching, writhing, stumbling, and growling like dogs caught in a tug-of-war. Hellfire of various shades burst and plumed here and there in the midst of it all.

To avoid further injury, Crowley managed to slip free of the strap, though he clung to the weapon as best he could, knowing that if he lost it, he’d lose everything else too. _ “Let go, _you bloody--” Crowley’s claws scraped against the plastic, slipping as Hastur gave it a great yank.

They handled it far too roughly in their squabble, and the seams of the plastic opened. Gallons of water escaped from the vessel in a great pop, causing both of them to flinch back and become doused.

Hastur stood quaking and stunned as the pieces of plastic settled on the ground, the tattered empty strap still caught on his arm. He looked as if he might die from his shock and fear alone. Dripping like a wet mop, he slowly glanced over himself and patted his body in disbelief.

Crowley backed away, also drenched and entirely unharmed from the not-Holy Water.

Hastur pulled his cosmic eyes up to burn a look of pure loathing into the serpent's broken glasses. “**_𐍅𝛐ᥩ_**,” he raged with a hundred thousand voices.

“God, help me.” Crowley whispered. He whirled to break into a dead (or soon-to-be-dead) sprint down the open hall, which seemed much, much more endless than ever before.

* * *

Anthony J. Crowley flew through the corridor. Or at least, he would have if he could have. It was much too small to spread his wings, so he was forced to flee only by the propulsion of his clumsy limbs. The demon narrowly dodged a beam of Hellfire by flinging himself around a corner. He slipped to all fours, scrambled back up to his feet, and pounded ahead to the next corner as more Hellfire, curling and raging, filled the halls behind him. 

The passageways of Hell were maze-like and tangled despite being composed of only sharp angles-- though never right ones. He took each corner at full speed, sliding on his heels and crashing against the opposite wall only to push himself off from it as if it were a spring board. He charged through the crypts, desperate to escape them like they were the deepest channels of the universe’s worst volcano about to blow, which was not far from the truth.

It would not take long for Duke Hastur to inform Lord Beelzebub, and then for Lord Beelzebub to perhaps inform King Satan himself if she were livid enough. News would spread faster than both wildfire and disease when that happened, both of which were plentiful down here.

It was evident when _ someone _ had been informed, because an unholy chorus suddenly roared from the old, beaten intercoms of the basement, **“****S****ߙ𝛐𝕻 Ħ𝖏ᙏⵑ”** Buzzing insects commenced to pour from their speakers. 

The rank air of the underground structure grew hot and the floors began to boil. The walls started to glow red with the increasing heat. Still, Crowley ran, breathlessly wheezing curses and blessings alike. What difference did it matter, anymore? Eventually, his wrath burned away and left him with the truth. He was scared. “Please let me make it outta here,” he sputtered as he flailed and slid around another magmatic corner. “Please, God.”

He didn’t know why he bothered asking _ her _ for anything. Habit, perhaps? An ancient, worn, useless habit that he couldn’t seem to shake, not even after all this time. Not even after his fall, after she’d forsaken him and cast him out. She hadn’t listened to his protestations and pleas then, and she wouldn’t now. It was a foolish and useless habit.

Maybe he just continued to hope that she had meant it when she’d told him that she loved him, and would always love him. No matter what he did. No matter what questions he asked. Maybe he just continued to hope that she had _ meant it _ , and hadn’t _ lied. _Maybe he was that Goddamn desperate.

But she couldn’t hear him, especially not down there. He knew that. He was on his own, and his Mother in Heaven wouldn’t be able to save him even if she could hear him. Even if she bothered to take the time to consider it.

He clenched his teeth and bore a growl, equipping his pained rage toward her and using it to fuel himself. Swarms of locusts and other insects buzzed like static behind him, their tiny wings beating as fast as possible to catch up to him.

His sprint did not waver, only growing stronger and more efficient as his sheer terror morphed into an unbreakable determination to survive. Run_ better. _ He demanded of himself. His life counted on it. _ Aziraphale _ was counting on it. **Run** ** _ better._ **

So he ran better. His abandoned his panicked clumsiness behind and surged forward, Usain-bolting down the halls, breaking world records of distance, endurance, and speed. A piece of the ground ahead of him buckled and fell into a bubbling inferno below, but he leapt across the gap. He just had to make it to the doors, then he would be free. Then he would be safe. Then he would be basking in Aziraphale’s delighted smile.

Crowley shot into a larger room with the Main Gates at the end of it-- open and glowing with the surface’s light that may as well have been Heaven’s in comparison to everything else-- and the stairs leading to said surface just beyond them. He was almost there. He huffed a brief smile, every ligament and joint in his body working with optimal flexibility like those of a sprinting cheetah. 

A ravine split the room in two with a great rumble. The floor abruptly sagged and tilted, causing him to fall. He slid impressively thanks to his momentum, but managed to dig his claws into what was left of the concrete to prevent himself from slipping straight down into the Pit.

_ “Shitshitshitshitshit!” _ he spat repeatedly, snarling as the material that he clung onto shifted, crumbled, and rained down into the Hellish abyss. A great flap of his wings brought him back up to the opposite ledge, the tips of his feathers blazing with fire.

Catching his breath, he stumbled forward and lunged for the Gates. Before he could feel any sort of relief, he felt a terrible confusion and dismay. The two tangled feelings smacked into him as hard as he smacked into the iron bars of the now-closed Gates. “What? No, no no…” He looked over the barrier, certain that it had been open only moments ago. Clenching his fists around the chains and bars, his snarls increased into yells. “No, no, nononoNONONO!”

The chains rattled and the bars creaked, but only to humor him. He couldn’t force them open if he used three times all his immortal strength. His back seared with heat from the open pit behind him, and he could hear the writhing, sniveling, and snickering of other demons as they closed in from all facets of Hell.

Stunned with denial, he continued desperately trying to break open the cursed Gates. He _ had _ to return to the surface. He had to return to _ Aziraphale_. He’d promised.

It was clear that he had to _ fight _ to escape. That was the only way out of this, now. He would fight all of Hell if he had to, and right now, _ he had to. _ So Crowley turned around. He spread his wings, flashed his fangs, and readied his claws.

The grim reality was; he was not going to make any inch of progress towards his goal. But he would put up a damn good fight while it lasted-- which would be all of three seconds. It was an impossible goal. More impossible than stopping the inevitable apocalypse. More impossible than driving a bloody car through a wall of Satanic Flame. More impossible than God answering his prayers. More impossible than an angel and a demon becoming the dearest of friends.

Stubbornly, he forbade himself to fail. He forbade himself to die. He _ had _ to return home to Aziraphale. There would be no other option.

Before he could meet his doom, however, he was smacked aside by the iron gates as they burst open. The chain had snapped like a string and the bars were bent like flimsy nails. A merciless beast erupted into Hell, wicked as all sin and towering in the opened space. Slavering with a vengeance, it devoured every creature it saw, chomping and breaking and destroying anything that fit into its mouth-- which was everything. The beast rampaged through the swarm of demons, culling them all with swift madness.

Crowley balled himself tightly in a corner and flinched at the sound of every scream and crunch, calculating how he could sneak through the war zone and slip outside. After everything else had been torn to shreds, the great abomination began attacking pieces of things it’d already killed, unable to tell the difference and too furious to care.

Crowley had an opening to make a break for it, but as he moved, the monster whirled to catch him in its red burning gaze. Freezing, Crowley stared back at it, his heart pounding. Then, he recognized...

_ “Dog?” _

The redhead caught his breath, easing his stance while closing his wings. The Hellhound snarled and faced him, dropping the remains of another demon from its giant jaws. Crowley reached out a hand. “Dog, it’s me.”

The dog stepped closer, still drooling hungrily between its rows of shark teeth. Its nostrils flared. Its eyes seared and its claws were bathed in black, charred blood. It exhaled an omnipresent growl that rolled like thunder. 

“Adam’s not here,” Crowley shook his head, answering. “I’ve already looked, Dog, he’s not here.”

The monster processed this with another snarl, then calmed slightly as the anger in its eyes melted to reveal pain and fear. Its jowls relaxed and it whined with the pitch of a creaky door.

“It’s alright. It’s a _ good _ thing, eh?” Crowley nodded, his hand still outstretched. The Hellhound leaned forward to rest his giant snout against the demon’s hand, uttering a rumbling whimper of despair. “It’s alright.” Crowley stoked his nose, stepping closer to apply the use of his other arm as well, rubbing the beast’s cheek.

“We’re going to find him, don't worry.”


	5. In Which Aziraphale Leaves Heaven

Another set of glass doors slid open, revealing Heaven’s rooftop terrace. It held a grand courtyard interwoven with walkways of marble stone that were flawlessly laid through lush gardens. A large circular plaza dominated the heart of the courtyard, where a mountainous fountain of Holy Water danced.

Above the mountainous fountain and the large plaza, there floated a series of giant rings of purified stone-- halo-like and as equally intimidating as they were beautiful. Angels had already begun to settle upon them, flocking to the levitating perch points by the hundreds. Angels also gathered upon the plenitude of stair-shaped places around the courtyard, quickly filling the outdoor amphitheater. The entire terrace was built with a sort of sleek modernistic (borderline futuristic) style-- and yet it deeply resembled the Roman era of artistic architectural design.

Aziraphale walked towards the plaza-- which, he knew, was about to become an arena-- following the pathway through the gardens where patches of flora of the most vibrant sorts were kept as trophies, all manicured to perfection. One might have expected to hear songbirds chirping in the background of the picturesque environment, but if one did expect such a silly thing then they would be disappointed. There were no animals up there. Animals were inferior creatures, and they stayed firmly on the terrestrial floor at the highest. House rules; No pets allowed. There was a sign and everything.

Aziraphale briefly thought of Crowley as he passed the colorful plants, many of which were red, yellow, blue, pink, purple, and of course, white. How the demon would have marveled at the health of the leaves and petals, not a single one with any hint of discoloration, and not a single one contaminated by the presence of any insects.

The redhead would have also been aglow upon taking such an exquisite view of the stars. Entire galaxies were spread throughout the literal space surrounding them, not so much ‘distant’ as they were simply ‘small’-- each the size of an apple that could fit in one’s hand. Such drastic visual scaling was necessary when one had to map the entire universe and gear it for easy accessibility.

But, oh, the bookkeeper was so _ very _ glad that Crowley hadn’t come up here instead of him.

“I don’t see why this is necessary.” Aziraphale muttered, subtly glancing sideways to Gabriel as they walked side by side. It was a complete waste of the bookkeeper’s time, and he would have been glad to reschedule this duel for another occasion, such as one where a child’s life was _ not _ in jeopardy. 

“Your first trial was declared incomplete.” Gabriel reiterated. Clearly, the word he was looking for was ‘unsuccessful.’

Aziraphale glowered. “I did exactly as I was instructed; I stepped into the fire.”

“And you survived."

The Earthly angel sighed through his nose, reigning in his irritation. “When I survive _ this one, _ are you _ still _going to be dissatisfied?” Aziraphale murmured as they strolled reverently through the garden toward the plaza.

“You’re not going to survive it.” Gabriel kindly reminded him through his grinning teeth.

“Do you know what happened the last time England had a trial like this?” Aziraphale reminisced. He glanced over at his companion again, recalling the tale. “A servant was falsely accused of stealing sheep from his master. The master, who was healthier, stronger, who had the support of the entire town behind him, and who was absolutely _ sure _that he would win... showed up to the match completely drunk.” Aziraphale concluded with a question, a slight smugness laced in his tone, “Can you guess who won?”

“I am not intoxicated.” Gabriel murmured as they stepped through the last bit of garden.

“Not on wine, no.”

Gabriel took an additionally large step to place himself in front of the bookkeeper. “You will not win this battle, Aziraphale.” He bowed forward and tilted his head, believing the Principality was entirely stupid to think so. “You are not some underdog who’s going to astonish everybody and come out on top against all odds. This isn’t one of your _ ‘pornographies.’” _

He referenced the wrong genre of film entirely, but Aziraphale understood the gist of what he was trying to say. The blonde tried not to be tickled by it, and pardoned his mistake.

Smiling humbly up at him, Aziraphale spoke in earnest, “I will do what I must to find Adam. If that means I must win this duel, then I daresay, I will win this duel.”

Gabriel snickered, but humored him with a shrug. “Then you will fall.”

“I will not fall.” The bookkeeper’s voice was warm and gentle as if reassuring a child who did not believe in things he could not comprehend. “And I would like not to have to kill you.”

Gabriel tucked his chin, identifying, “You’re trying to intimidate me into conceding. It’s rather cute. But it’s not going to happen.” 

Aziraphale gave him a look and a tilt of his head, believing that was a downright shame.

Gabriel sighed loudly and straightened his back. He shook his head, and then eased into to a tone that was almost convincingly affectionate. “You are the most derisible angel I have ever known. I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure. But, I will not miss you.”

Aziraphale accepted his goodbye with a sad nod, though truly, he didn’t give a single damn about what Gabriel thought of him anymore. “Well, I would appreciate greater notice before the _ next _retrial.” He responded, continuing his stroll towards the plaza. “As I said, this came at a horribly inconvenient time.”

The Archangel fell into step beside him once again, grinning at the crowd that had gathered around the plaza like a town-favorite mayor running for a guaranteed re-election. Tilting his head slightly to throw a sideways promise to his opponent, Gabriel whispered, “Oh, not to worry, there won't _ be _another retrial.” There was a clear threat beneath his chipper tone.

“Oh, _ good.” _ Aziraphale turned a slightly dark smile directly to Gabriel. The Principality’s orbs twinkled. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

* * *

The final bell tolled. With the last resonating note of its brass, the fountain ceased sending its spires skyward. The water made its final rise, stall, and then downward fall, though it dispersed into a gentle mist long before reaching the ground. The figure of another Archangel stood in the fountain’s prior place; the heart of the arena.

He was tall, well-built, and wore a nondescript robe in place of a suit. Stone-faced and ancient, he appeared plain and simple, though he was not always. He appeared of little value or importance, and perhaps even appeared outdated, to those who didn’t know any better. But he would never be outdated, and he would never be of little value or importance. 

He was Raguel, the Archangel of Justice.

Every angel bowed their heads to greet his arrival. They all simultaneously straightened by the thousands, each holding their own wrists politely in front of themselves, their shoulders square and their expressions calm. The other two angels standing in the center of the arena were no exception. Neither looked at one another. Only at Raguel.

“Principality Aziraphale of the Third Choir.”

Aziraphale stepped forward with a solemn confidence.

“You stand as the accused.”

Raguel commenced the Trial process, citing rights and charges. Aziraphale listened as patiently as he could. He felt incredibly restless, but he did well to resist showing it. Adam was somewhere below, in trouble. And yet there he was, being read his Heavenly rights. He wanted to get this on with, already. “You have been assigned a retrial by way of judicial duel.”

“Archangel Gabriel of the High Order.”

Gabriel stepped forward, cracking a smile as bright as a glowstick.

“You have volunteered to serve as champion in the duel.”

It was all Aziraphale could do to prevent himself from rolling his eyes at the equivocal, biased title. As all things in Heaven, a Trial by Combat was governed by the core ideal of faith-based rule; that God would always allow the virtuous to win, and always ensure the corrupted to lose.

Aziraphale didn’t believe that he was ‘corrupt’ at all. He also supposed that neither was Gabriel, so he didn’t quite know _ who _God would side with. But he had faith in God. He had faith that whatever happened, it would happen for a reason. The outcome of this duel was partially out of his hands, and he was alright with that. 

All he could do was try his very best to survive this and finish this _ quickly_, for Adam. The boy was waiting on him with every passing moment. If he failed, then he would fail in peace, knowing that God had another plan in store for the boy. That perhaps dear Crowley would find him and get him safely home. After that, well… Aziraphale tried not to think about any of that rubbish.

He tried not to think about Crowley waiting for him until he undoubtedly received the news of his death from Gabriel himself. Aziraphale tried not to think of Crowley being stunned into a brief denial, or sitting in a stool depleting some poor barkeep’s extensive inventory, weeping his eyes out, or donning a fiery rage of vengeance only to get himself killed, potentially also by Gabriel’s own hands.

Aziraphale tried not to think about any of that at all.

He realized he had been clamping a rather tight grip down onto his own wrist, and forced himself to relax. He also realized that Raguel was asking Gabriel a question.

“Do stand to fulfill your commitment?”

But Gabriel didn’t answer. 

Not immediately. Not even _ soon_. 

“Gabriel,” Raguel prompted again. “Do you stand to fulfill your commitment?”

The bookkeeper felt his heart quicken, waiting, wide eyed, wondering if Gabriel had undergone a change of heart, if he had been intimidated into backing down after all, if he would allow him to leave now, in one piece, and go find Adam.

It was only when Aziraphale finally looked over at the man with some kind of foolish hope in his eyes did Gabriel smile at Raguel, and nod. “I do.”

Aziraphale glared forward again. His hand regained a tightness around his own wrist.

Raguel continued with the Heavenly formalities and divine blessing as if he were a minister in the middle of administering a marriage ceremony. “Then by the powers of God,” Raguel drew a slender golden blade from his robe, glowing with light that flared like the sun’s rays. He maneuvered it carefully to each angel in turn as if knighting them.

“May the Light of Truth reveal that which should be,” The blade rested upon Aziraphale’s left shoulder.

“That which has been prior,” The blade rested upon Gabriel’s right shoulder.

Raguel then held the sword between the three of them, pointing it straight up at the stars. “And that which shall always be.” The two contestants faced each other with the sword between them and each placed a hand upon the hilt; Gabriel’s hand above Raguel’s, closest to the base of the blade, and Aziraphale’s hand below Raguel’s, closest to the pommel. They met each other’s eyes from across the vertical edge.

A resounding “Amen,” echoed through the plaza, powered by a choir of a million holy voices. The blessing concluded with a beam of light skyrocketing from the sword into the center point of the highest stone ring above them. The light struck what seemed to be an invisible ceiling, then bloomed outward and down, creating a dome-shaped barrier that the halo structures crowned.

Raguel’s sword disappeared as its light was spent, and the three angels in the arena lowered their empty hands.

“Coats.” Raguel ordered. Gabriel and Aziraphale shrugged out of their jackets, folding them nicely before handing them over to the mediator. They each tugged their vests taut and checked the straightness of the cuffs of their shirt sleeves.

“And arms.” Raguel hung both coats on his right elbow like a bellhop and gestured to his fellow Archangel first. “Gabriel, draw your weapon.”

The man smirked, then fished a silver pen out of his vest pocket. With a click, it extended into a full polearm that was highly reminiscent of a shepherd’s staff. Small knife-sized blades popped out of one end to assume the shape of a sharpened cross, also forming the piercing tip of a halberd-like tool.

It was a magnificent polearm. Aziraphale was only sorry he had to be on the other end of it. Hopefully, not literally. “_Well, _ I see _ you’ve _made some upgrades as well.” The blonde murmured with a sigh.

“Aziraphale, draw your weapon.”

Nothing as extravagant happened. Nothing at all happened, except for the bookkeeper giving Raguel a pathetic expression. “I do not have it.”

For one who had seen almost everything, the old Archangel appeared in disbelief. “You do not have your weapon?”

“I do not.” Aziraphale repeated, then offered a solution to his negligence, “Though, I... can _ conjure _a replacement. May I?”

Raguel gave him a disapproving look. Aziraphale knew full well that conjured weapons were no match for celestial ones. Conjured weapons were only as strong as the conjurer who crafted them-- while celestial weapons had been crafted by God herself. The odds were already in Gabriel’s favor prior to this hiccup, and without a weapon of celestial nature, Aziraphale was at an even greater disadvantage.

But a conjured weapon was better than no weapon at all, and ‘no weapon at all’ was not allowed in a judicial duel. So Raguel had no choice but to allow it with a sigh. “Very well.”

Aziraphale nodded in gratitude, but did not conjure a thing. He didn’t appear concerned about his ‘disadvantage’ in the least bit. He was able to _ choose _ what weapon he conjured into the ring, and he would make his choice when the time was right.

Everyone in the terrace eyed him suspiciously, but Raguel moved on. “Are both participants aware and in understanding of the laws governing the judicial duel?”

Gabriel gave Aziraphale one last smile, resting the end of his polearm upon the ground. “Yes.”

Aziraphale held his chin high and took a calming breath, easing his empty hands at his sides. “Yes.”

“Then upon the arrival of Her Light, you may begin.”

* * *

They stood, waiting for God’s Light. Still, Aziraphale did not conjure a weapon. Their angelic audience whispered in confusion. The accused had no means to attack at all, and physical aggression in the form of grapples and the like were not only_ not allowed_, they were _ incapable _of being performed in the arena. Contact could only be made with a weapon. They weren’t savages.

After a few moments, they all began to wonder if God herself was waiting for Aziraphale to conjure a weapon. But still, he did not. Empty-handed, he looked up at the crest of the dome and blinked with a wincing smile, still waiting patiently even though it was incredibly difficult. All he could think about was Adam; scared, alone, and in trouble. Waiting to be rescued from some terrible circumstance or other.

Gabriel ran his thumb across the silver metal of his weapon, also anxious to begin. Though, for entirely different reasons.

Finally, a nearly-blinding spotlight snapped on from the top of the dome in a searing beam, and the match began with a roaring cheer from the audience.

The angels started their duel with a burst of their wings, taking off in a vertical race towards the light. It was the way of things. Whoever ascended highest and touched the light had the upper hand-- traditionally, symbolically, figuratively, and literally. Along with the advantage of height, they also gained the right to strike first.

Aziraphale knew he wasn't going to reach the top. Gabriel’s wings were broader and more impressive. It was clear he did not skip ‘wing day’ when he exercised. So the bookkeeper did not overexert himself to keep up. Instead, he paced his ascension and rolled up his sleeves to expose his forearms-- not exactly breaking dress code, though it was unconventional.

Gabriel extended the tips of his primary feathers during his final upstroke, stretching to barely brush them against the ceiling of the barrier, and then downward everything went.

The Archangel stalled, poised his weapon with a flourish, and dove with the spear aimed for the bookkeeper-- bearing all the force of a raining bullet. Simultaneously, Aziraphale plumed his feathers, leaned back, and allowed himself to fall, welcoming the attack. It did not take long for Gabriel to catch up to the Principality’s calculated descent, but as the tip of the spear came into range, Aziraphale braced his bare arms in front of himself and conjured his weapon.

A sheet of golden metal shimmered into existence, extending to form a large, slightly convex rectangle. The edges tapered into subtle blades and the corners grew ornate with humble curled designs.

The spear connected loudly with the center of the shield, and the angels’ downward momentum combined as their weapons remained pressed together as if they were magnetic.

Aziraphale tucked his wings firmly in a cocoon shape around his back, not allowing them to weaken and trail upward. The knuckles of his feathered appendages aerodynamically pierced the air beneath him like they were parting water in a dive. It appeared that he planned on his wings bearing the full force of his inevitable crash landing, sparing his neck and back at their expense.

But that was not his plan at all.

The Principality bore through the pressure of the descent until the last moment, when he forced his wings into action. With a sharp curve of his feathers through the air, he rolled out from underneath the Archangel, dislodging the tip of Gabriel’s spear from the center of his shield. Parachuting his wings after the action was completed successfully, he caught his breath. The bookkeeper had narrowly missed being pegged into the ground like a tent stake.

As his opponent unexpectedly escaped, Gabriel crashed into the marble stone alone, his spear embedding deeply into the ground.

The angelic audience reacted to the stunt in cruel delight, their chorus of beautiful voices shifting into harsh laughter. But they were not laughing at Gabriel’s failure to finish the match on the first strike. They were laughing at the Principality’s choice of ‘weapon.'

Still, Gabriel growled and stood up, yanking his weapon from the stone. The marble’s cracks healed marvelously. He stalked toward where the bookkeeper had gently landed on his own two feet.

“You sure you want to do this?” Aziraphale gave him yet another chance to back out of the duel. His nearly full-body-length shield remained relaxed at his side, securely buckled to his bare arm. He stood calmly as Gabriel stormed forward. 

“Shut up and fight.” The Archangel snapped, bringing his polearm up in a swift twirl. Aziraphale blocked it with a twist of his shield. And thus, they fought.

Metal clashed upon metal in a rapid succession of percussive blows. Gabriel used his weapon as a staff, turning it around himself at an impressive speed of powerful hits, whacks, and the occasional jab or slice. Aziraphale kept pace with him, maneuvering his golden shield to defend himself from the onslaught as if it were as light as cardboard-- but far more sturdy. He used his free hand to guide the massive plate’s movement like he was a sign twirler advertising peace and goodwill.

At one point, the spear glanced off the bowed surface in a brief loss of control on the Archangel’s part, and Aziraphale had an opportunity to place an attack of his own. He took it with a lift of his elbow, sending the bottom edge of his shield out to land a blow under Gabriel’s arm. The sharpened edge of the shield deeply cut into Gabriel’s silk vest and forced him to back off for a moment, but not for long.

Growling loudly, the Archangel bore a mighty swing of his polearm like a baseball bat. It was strong enough to dent Aziraphale’s shield, compromising its overall structure. Aziraphale staggered back from the force, but bore the pressure through his arm and kept his shield under control. 

The blade of Gabriel’s weapon hooked upon the shield's edge, and the Archangel tugged his opponent towards himself, taking advantage of the fact that it was secured to the Principality’s arm.

Aziraphale helplessly stumbled forward and suffered a deep wound to the shoulder because of it, but he luckily managed to break away from further harm.

Gabriel seemed to grow overzealous by the long-overdue landing of a successful attack, and mercilessly continued throwing blow after blow. Aziraphale struggled to keep up, flinching with every echoing parry of metal upon metal. He missed the execution of one vital block, clumsily leaping sideways to evade the spear.

_ Focus, Aziraphale. _ He demanded of himself.

He gasped as some feathers were severed from his wing.

** _Focus_**_, Aziraphale_. Crowley’s voice demanded within his mind. His tone was laced with the most devout faith. _You can do it, angel._

Though it was all in his head, it was not entirely fabricated. He knew that Crowley dearly believed in him, if nothing else. So Aziraphale focused. He steadied his breath, timing it to his calming pulse. He centered himself and employed the virtue of patience, studying his opponent’s actions closely.

With some dull sense of realization, he remembered something he’d always subconsciously known; that combat and dance were essentially one in the same. The Principality had always been gifted at both. They were all about falling in synchronization with a partner, even if in opposition. The Guard of the Eastern Gate regained a wave of certainty within himself, seeing this not as a battle for life and death, but instead as a deadly dance.

He was the only angel that could dance, and contrary to what some people believed, he could dance quite well.

He began blocking everything perfectly again, matching every attack with a well-placed deflection of his shield. He even smiled again, finding that he rather enjoyed this little game. Gabriel grew frustrated, embarrassed, impatient, or all of the above, and that was steadily making him more desperate, angry, and clumsy.

The spear jabbed forward again, and this time, Aziraphale was more than ready. The bookkeeper jumped sideways and brought his shield down to pin the polearm against the ground. Hooking the bottom edge of his shield onto the spear’s blades, he bore his weight down upon his golden sheet of metal to keep the weapon pinned there.

The blonde caught his breath and shifted his stance, grimacing with the struggle as Gabriel tried to force his weapon free.

“Last chance,” Aziraphale hissed from the exertion. Gabriel only huffed a short laugh and then executed a mighty yank to dislodge his spear. Aziraphale allowed the yank to succeed, though he kept his shield hooked upon the polearm’s blade. The shield was angled in just a way so that its top edge smacked into Gabriel’s face as his polearm was freed.

Gabriel staggered back with a hand to his face, no longer quite as handsome as before. Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to show no mercy. Wielding his shield like it was a set of brass knuckles, he threw a powerful hit forward, knocking the Archangel away and damaging his arm enough for him to cry out and drop his spear.

Gabriel was too stunned to block the next attack. The Earthly angel spun around and backhanded him with the flat surface of the shield like it was a giant paddle, sending him crashing to the stone in a cloud of white dust and marble shards.

As the cloud settled, Gabriel coughed and looked up to see Aziraphale holding his shield perpendicular to the ground, pointing his fist at him. The shape of a golden bow curled out from his grip, lengthening to match the height of his shield. A harp string glimmered into existence between the two ends of the bow. With his free hand, Aziraphale nocked and drew an arrow, his form flawless.

The Principality calmly met Gabriel’s astonished gaze for a moment, his crystal blue eyes cold and hawk-like beyond the curve of his bow and the string at his cheek.

Aziraphale released the arrow.

* * *

The angelic audience reacted viscerally, all facades broken, some crying out, some wailing, some horrified-- most angry, or some variation of upset. The rooftop terrace hadn’t been so raucous since the Great War and the First Fall.

The arrow flew straight to the Archangel’s heart at the speed of light, which was entirely fitting, because as it hit its target, it _ became _light. Gabriel shut his eyes and flinched with a gasp-- but he only felt a sharp chill of Holy Light pass through his form. He looked up in bewilderment as Aziraphale calmly lowered his shieldbow and returned to a stance of ease.

The spotlight switched off and the barrier shimmered as it fell, signifying the completion of the duel by higher powers beyond their control or understanding, leaving the audience chattering in outraged confusion as two victors remained, each with their life.

“Well, I hope you got that out of your system." Aziraphale sighed, straightening his vest and tugging the cuffs of his sleeves to his wrists as the shieldbow disappeared from his arm. "Now if you will excuse me, I will be on my way.” Aziraphale announced rhetorically, not bothering to wait for permission. He was not bound to remain there any longer. He stooped to pick up Gabriel’s weapon, looking over it in brief scrutinous admiration before commanding it back into its pen form with a click.

He held out the pen to Raguel, and the man took it from him in exchange for the bookkeeper's coat. Aziraphale gave the Archangel of Justice a polite smile and a grateful nod before turning and marching straight inside. As he strode through the glass doors he dusted off his torn shoulder, and his wound healed nicely. A small shake of his wing prompted the regrowth of its feathers.

Gabriel remained on the ground, too stunned to restore himself.

* * *

The interior of the building was empty, the walls no longer echoing with the criticisms of the choirs. Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile of celebratory pride, though he was mostly simply relieved that he could go about his urgent business undisturbed.

He hurried toward the escalator, shrugging on his coat, and refraining from sending a prayer of thanks up above. He was going to thank Her by saving Adam. He would make Her proud by saving Adam.

He wished that Crowley would have been able to watch all that. He couldn't wait to tell the demon that he had handed Gabriel his own royal arse in a Trial by Combat. It was certain now that the Archangel would never dare speak to him again, and Aziraphale was ecstatic about that.

The bookkeeper was just coming to the top of the stairs when his smile vanished, and he took a sharp breath. His hand went to the wall he paused to stare at vacant point before him. Something alarming flashed through his soul. Not pain, exactly. Perhaps it was pain, but it was not his own. It was someone else’s. Some else’s _fear_. 

“Adam….” He gasped, struggling to handle the experience.

Aziraphale did not receive prayers often, but he felt this one full force. Suddenly, he knew exactly where the child was.


	6. In Which Adam is Found

Adam was locked in a room, hugging his knees and balled up against the corner. His cheeks were damp but the fabric over his knees were even more so. He was not a crier. But sometimes crying was allowed, especially when one found themself trapped in an old, stinky, dark, abandoned church house by a complete stranger who turned out not to be a very nice one after all.

The boy didn’t know how he ended up in this mess. He’d never had any trouble with strangers in Tadfield, mostly because no strangers ever came to Tadfield. Perhaps he _ would _ have been more cautious around strangers _ before _ he discovered he had unfathomable powers. But since the non-apocalypse, he had to admit he felt a bit more _ brave _ than usual. Evidently, that bravery had made him reckless, and it was entirely his own fault for choosing to accept ‘help’ from a man driving an obviously sketchy van.

Now, Adam did not feel so brave. He also didn’t feel so powerful, and that was the primary cause of his rare lack of bravery. The boy had tried everything he could think of to get himself out of this mess. He had squinted at the door with a burning intensity, certain that at any moment, it would splinter into a thousand pieces, but the door had remained intact and locked. He’d imagined all sorts of dreadful things happening to the stranger who had tormented him, but the stranger remained in possession of all his fingers and toes, and his hair did not turn pink.

Adam’s powers weren’t working and he didn’t know why. It scared him, probably more than the stranger scared him, because if the boy were still in possession of his powers, then the stranger wouldn’t have been a danger to him at all. Without them, the stranger was very much a danger to him. Adam was brash, but he was no moron.

The stranger had interrogated him about how much money his parents had, where they lived, who he could send a ransom note to, what he was going to do to him if he didn’t cooperate, all of that business. Adam hadn’t told him a damned thing, thinking he was protecting his family by doing so, only issuing back his own threats of _ ‘I’m friends with a witch, and she’s going to turn you into a newt when she gets here.’ _The stranger had found that rather humorous.

Maybe the boy couldn’t magically solve things the way he usually could because he didn't have Dog with him. He’d never tried using his powers, subconsciously or otherwise, without Dog around, but Dog was definitely gone now. Adam was still worried about him, even though he probably should have been worrying about himself. If Dog was alright, then surely he was sniffing around searching for him. Adam just knew it. Dog would come find him like Lassie, who had ran to get help for her boy when he’d been stuck in a well. Adam was certainly stuck, though the church house was no well. But the child had heard no barking from outside of the tall stained glass window that allowed a bit of light to bleed into his dismal dungeon. 

It was a weathered and dusty image with faded colors, bearing scuffs and marks and rotting pine gunk that made the window seem almost eerie. Adam couldn't tell what exact character the stain glass depicted, but it looked human and had feathered wings, so it had to have been an angel.

It was all he could look at in the room, not that there was anything else to look at. He was not a particularly religious boy, even after the events of the non-apocalypse. He often skipped church to go play in the woods with his friends, which was a far better way to spend one’s time than listening to a bunch of old people preach and sing. But he figured that-- in his own privacy, with nothing else to do and no one around to make fun of him for showing a bit of helplessness-- it couldn't hurt to try praying. It was surely the last thing he could do to get himself out of there, since he’d tried everything else.

He prayed that his father would come find him and take this bad stranger away-- off to jail, or prison, or wherever he’d fit in best. He prayed that when his dad found him, he wouldn’t ask any difficult questions and just hug him really tightly. He prayed that he’d bring Dog with him, and that everything would be better again soon.

Adam apologized for running away again like the naughty boy he was. He promised that he’d never try any funny tricks using Dog as an excuse to run off again. And as a last resort, he prayed that if his dad couldn’t find him, then at least perhaps that no more harm would come to him and that he’d be safe again soon. He prayed that he would make it out of there, somehow, in some way.

The boy began to tear up again as he was met with a wave of doubt and fear halfway through his praying. Damaging questions circled in his mind as he wondered if he was even worthy of being heard. What if he hadn’t gone to church enough times or practiced the right rituals? What if he was born mute to God’s ears? He began to worry that this praying nonsense was all just rubbish, and no one was listening to him at all.

For all he knew, that very well may have been true, because the doorknob to his room began to rattle. It was unlocked not by any kind of savior, but by the cruel stranger instead. He spoke about taking the child away; somewhere that would pay good money to have him, and he stormed forward to grab the boy. 

He was deaf to Adam’s protestations, and especially deaf to his promises to tell him where his family was. The stranger didn’t believe the child’s desperate lies claiming that his parents had lots of money to pay him-- if he would only send the ransom note to them saying where he was. The stranger told him that it was far too late for any of that, and that the exchange was already scheduled.

A great struggle ensued, and a scream was elicited from the child as he fought and pounded and kicked and pulled and yanked against the stranger on their way out the door. The boy was dragged outside by his hair and arm, fighting vehemently all the way. They struggled down the gravel path to where the van lay parked in the dirt, slipping and stumbling, but the stranger’s grip remained as strong as the jaws of death.

Adam didn't stop resisting, screaming for help. There was nothing but sparse wilderness for miles around the church house, and so the stranger didn’t bother silencing him. “Nobody’s around to hear you, boy, scream all you like,” he challenged.

He was wrong.

A bolt of lightning suddenly flashed out of broad daylight to strike the van ahead of them. As an immediate result, the van blossomed with violent white fire, and Adam didn't have to struggle anymore. The stranger let go of him, frightened by the inexplicable event and allowing the child to fall into the dirt.

Adam glanced at the sudden inferno only briefly before turning to run-- not knowing where or which direction. Being lost in the woods with bears and wolves and cold dark nights was better than being trapped with the stranger, especially now that he was going to be raving mad at the loss of his vehicle.

But as Adam scrambled to his feet and pulled his gaze off the van, he faced a familiar figure. Aziraphale stood before him with wings extended and glowing as if they were made from the sun. All Adam could see of him was a warm and welcoming white light, along with the bookkeeper’s peaceful smile, as if nothing at all was wrong in the world. Adam couldn't possibly run any faster into his embrace.

Adam tightly squeezed his arms around the angel and buried his face into his chest, not wishing to be conscious of anything other than his presence, which was indeed real and not a dream. He felt the bookkeeper’s hand rest upon his head, soothing the places in the child’s matted brown hair where the stranger had pulled. The angel’s other arm closed around his back to cradle him close. 

They became completely enveloped in light as his pair of glowing wings closed behind the boy like curtains, blocking out the world and forming a purified cocoon of safety. The boy was so relieved, he could have wept all over again if it weren’t for the feeling of serenity that bathed his soul.

By the time the kidnapper had ceased staring in shock at the sight of his destroyed van, it was far too late for him to regain his lost cargo. The criminal whirled around only to be met with a wall of scalding red flame. The crimson fire sprang through the Earth in a right triangular prison around him. A very different visitor was suddenly grinning into the man’s face. There was soot on his fanged breath, scales in place of his dried skin, and embers reflecting in his dragon eyes.

It snarled an insidious invitation, “𝖏 Ԟռ𝛐𝖜 ᥑ ߜə𝖗Ұ Ş𝖕əʗ𝖏ĄȽ 𝕻ȽᥑʗⲈ, 𝖏ᥩŞߙ 𝖋Ѻ𝖗 Ұ𝛐ᥩ.”

The kidnapper was far too fearful to unleash a scream, and before he could comprehend it, he was seized by obsidian claws. Black wings commanded a plume of smoke to swarm them as the ground within the triangle of fire cracked to reveal underlying magma. With a swirl of darkness and an instantaneous quenching of the flames, they vanished. The place where they previously stood returned to ordinary-- save for a faint patch of crispy grass.

In the Directory down under, a slip of paper was coughed out of a dusty letter pipe. It was soon pinched between the overgrown teeth of a Hellrat, chewed into strips, and tucked into the creature’s foul nest, where it sat contentedly.

* * *

Adam was calmed by the overwhelming scent of cinnamon, sugar, warm-baked bread, and clean, soft velvet. The boy’s tears were gone. His fear had been erased, his bruises and scrapes along with it. He felt as if he'd just enjoyed a good long rest-- the kind that rejuvenates one’s very bone marrow. He felt very comfortable and safe and entirely _ elsewhere_. Somewhere too good for this world. Somewhere that only the greatest poets and painters could imagine.

Wherever it was, he would have liked to stay there forever, but he soon came to remember that he was not there. He was in reality, on Earth, and he was hugging another person. With a slow opening of his eyes, removed himself from the hug and looked up at Aziraphale’s kind smile. The angel’s wings shifted behind him, feathers brushing against themselves with the gentle sound of rustling pages.

“You heard me.” Adam realized with renewed faith.

“I did.”

Aziraphale’s wings opened fully, folding behind his back before shrinking and fading from the physical world. Their departure revealed a dark figure standing between them and where the destroyed van once smoldered-- now replaced by a sleek, old, black Bentley.

Adam followed his instinct to turn around, and he smiled largely at Crowley. The redhead stood there with his glasses on his nose and a hand on one hip, appearing as posh, emotionless, and disinterested as ever, though it was all just a front.

The child turned and ran to him, surprising him with a tight hug that knocked him back a step. The demon blinked behind his glasses and hesitantly glanced down at the twerp, too stricken to know what to do.

Aziraphale stood up with a fond smile as Crowley remained paralyzed and confused beneath his glasses, glancing between the boy and the angel with a disgusted look as if to ask, _ ‘Is the Antichrist _ ** _hugging_ ** _ me???’ _

_ ‘Ex-Antichrist.’ _ Aziraphale seemed to remind him with a pinch of his smile. A nod affirmed, _ ‘And yes, he is.’ _

“Thank you.” Adam’s voice rose from between his own shoulder and Crowley’s jacket. He was speaking to the both of them. Crowley hadn’t heard him yet, still trying to process the hug.

Adam’s hold was broken when a bark startled him with delight. A sweet little terrier was wagging its fluffy tail and dancing excitedly behind the demon. “Dog!” The boy let go of Crowley to pick up his Dog and hold him tight, his fingers affectionately digging through his black and white fur. “I knew it! I knew you’d come for me!” He kissed the beast’s cheek. The Hellhound would never admit it aloud, but he quite enjoyed it.

“Let’s get you home, Adam.” Aziraphale opened an arm to the child, placing it to the boy’s shoulder as they made for the Bentley. “We mustn’t allow your parents to worry about you one second longer.” 

With a dazed and careless lift of his hand, Crowley miracled the car door open for the boy and his mutt. Adam headed that way with the terrier snuggled against his shoulder, but the adults lingered back for a moment. 

“What timing.” Aziraphale sighed, then furrowed his brow at his frozen companion. “Did you hear his prayer too?” It couldn’t be possible. Only angels heard prayers-- at least whenever God delegated for them to.

“--Wot?” Crowley snapped out of his trance, turning to face the blonde and then shaking his head vigorously. “Oh, no, no.” He glanced to the car, then sharply back at Aziraphale. “Wait a minute, did he _ pray?” _Eugck. Terrible. Just terrible, Crowley would never.

“Yes, he did.” Aziraphale hummed, his heart warmed.  
  
Crowley ignored his personal twinge of disgust and explained, “No, Dog came looking for him in the Pit and I figured; if the boy’s own _ Hellhound _ couldn’t track him down, then he _ must _ be in a demonic blind spot.” He gestured to the old steeple behind them. “So, a church. Simple, really.”

Aziraphale glowed with pride. “That’s brilliant, Crowley.” He forced his grin to dull, and more subtly complimented, “I’m glad you showed up. I’d hate to be the one to do the dirty work.”

Crowley shrugged as if it were no trouble at all. “More fun for me, I suppose.” They began stepping towards the car, the redhead asking, “So, how was Heaven?”

“Horrible. I’ll have to tell you all about it when this is over.” Aziraphale rested his hands behind his back. “How was Hell?”

“It wasn't that bad.” Crowley fibbed with a shrug. It wasn't a total lie. The trip certainly could have been a lot worse. “Not much to tell, really.” He opened the passenger door for the angel by hand, requesting as the blonde slid into the vehicle, “Make sure he buckles up.”

Aziraphale answered automatically, “Oh, I will.” And then looked up through the open window as Crowley closed the door. “Concerned about him, now, are you?”

_ “No.” _ Crowley protested weakly, struggling to come up with an alternate excuse. “It’s just that… well, after all the trouble we went through, it’d be a right shame if he were to go _ flying _ out the window at the first turn, wouldn’t it?” He gestured dramatically before circling around to the driver’s side.

Aziraphale gave him a knowing smile, allowing him to make his excuses. 

That scoundrel _ did _ care about the boy, even if the child was (quote) ‘not _ his _ son.’

* * *

Anathema pressed another staple into the telephone pole, pinning a flyer to the old weathered wood. Sadly, she looked at the page and passed her fingers across the black and white image of a smiling Young boy, fearing that it would be all she’d ever see of the neighborhood rascal again.

The rapidly-nearing screech of tires her made her turn around, and her hopes lifted at the sight of the Bentley, and not two, but _ three _ figures within it. 

“Adam! You’re alright!” she laughed (which she never did) as the child spilled out of the backseat along with his trusted canine. Adam jogged over to her and allowed her to hug him and check him over for injuries-- none of which were left to be found. As his rescuers stepped out from the car, Anathema brushed Adam’s hair out of his eyes and held his shoulders. “What happened to you?”

Adam’s expression scrunched with guilt and a lesson well-learned. “I met a stranger who said he’d help me find Dog. I shouldn't have gone with him. He wanted to sell me for money or something.” 

Anathema’s face grew cold and dark like a twister’s storm.

Adam eased her quickly, “But everything is alright now. My guardian angels saved me.”

Crowley looked up sharply.

After a few more seconds of allowing Anathema and Adam to fuss and babble, Crowley found his voice. “...A-Adam, I’m… I’m not an angel. I’m a--.”

The boy turned, too impatient in his youth to wait through the man’s uneasy stuttering. “Yes, you are,” he corrected gently, but firmly. “You’re an angel to _ me." _Apparently that was all that mattered, and his words were all that was necessary to make it true. Holding his Dog and smiling, Adam nodded to put an effective end to that conversation.

Crowley couldn't argue with him, and so he shut his gob and glanced at Aziraphale’s warm smile. The angel might have looked a bit smug, as if the redhead’s new title was no surprise to him at all.

“Thank you, _ very _ much.” Anathema looked up with relief in her large brown eyes. “Both of you.” She emphasized with a pointed look to Crowley. “Thank you.”

Crowley was rigid, perhaps disassociating due purely to his disbelief. Aziraphale spoke up with a nod, “Anytime, Anna,” and returned a wave as the witch and the ex-Antichrist departed. He lowered his hand and rested it upon his other wrist before turning to his friend, asking with a mischievous grin, “Are you alright, dear?”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine.” Crowley mumbled, coming back to reality slowly, but surely. He glanced at Aziraphale a few times, each one more with more awareness than the previous one, and each one with a smile that grew larger and larger. Finally, the man laughed once, curtly and earnestly. “I’m... _ good.” _

Aziraphale had seen many variances of _ happiness _ in Crowley’s expression before, but never one quite like this. One could almost say this one was an angelic sort of happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fanfic! Feel free to comment if you'd like to. I love receiving comments and interacting with readers. I don't bite, so let me know which parts resonated with you and which parts didn't. Please ask if you have any questions, or give me a heads-up if you spy any wily typos!
> 
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